Venn Diagram
by PandaRaver
Summary: Opposites attract, they say. They bloody well should. Greg's not going to spend the rest of his life with someone who can't even appreciate a bit of The Clash. (Part 2 of Days)(mystrade-centric)
1. My

**Disclaimer: The characters don't belong to me. Obviously. Well, except for Luke.**

**Note: It is necessary to read Tomorrow Never Knows first. The first three chapters are okay but once you hit the fourth, there may be some confusion.  
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* * *

Greg Lestrade is six-years-old when his mother has her third miscarriage, the first one after Greg was born. He was playing tag with his friends when Mrs Wendell called him in the classroom. She doesn't tell him then, but she does treat him differently, occasionally asking him if he's alright and if he wants a sweet. By the time his Aunt Louise arrives, Greg has already eaten three chocolate biscuits and is beginning to suffer from a sore throat.

Aunt Louise doesn't tell him at first, but when the hospital finally looms over them, she says that there was a problem with the baby. "You won't have a baby sister anymore," she says in a strange voice. Greg frowns when he realises that she looks like she's about to cry. It scares him a little so he looks away and focuses instead on the solemn grey building before them. "But Mummy is okay."

"Can I see her?"

"After a bit," she tells him. She takes a deep breath then smiles at him. Even at six, Greg knows that the smile is completely fake. "Let's go inside."

Aunt Louise leaves him in the waiting room with a magazine that features strange dogs and a pad of paper and some crayons. She tells him that his father will come by shortly and that she just needs to make sure that his mother is awake and ready to see him. A nurse joins him shortly to make sure he's doing alright. "That's nice," she says absent-mindedly when he shows her his squiggly drawing of a police car.

Greg doesn't like the waiting room, nor does he like hospitals in general. The seats are comfortable but the air smells far too clean, as if someone has painted the walls with layers of disinfectant. There's a telly but it only shows the news, which is boring. In the waiting room with him are a bunch of grown-ups. They're either talking on the phone or talking to each other. A sulking teenager sits as far away as possible from his mother. One of the adults, a woman wearing a bright yellow dress, smiles at him and asks him who he's waiting for. Greg says nothing and goes back to drawing.

Halfway through a drawing of a Dalmatian, a shadow falls over him. "Hello there. Dogs aren't purple," someone says in an accusing tone. Greg looks up.

The boy looking down at him is familiar, though Greg has never spoken a word to him. They go to the same school, his mind supplies when he remembers that he's seen the boy in the same uniform as him. He's older than Greg, by a year maybe. "Hi," Greg says.

"Hello," he says again.

Greg sets the sketchpad down. He's not supposed to talk to strangers but the kid isn't really a stranger. They've met before. Sort of, anyway. Standing in line to get lunch with two people between them is sort of meeting each other in Greg's opinion.

A doctor approaches the woman in yellow. She gets up, follows him, and the boy immediately takes her place. "I'm Mycroft by the way. Mycroft Holmes," he tells Greg as he sticks out a hand. Greg finds that weird. Only teachers do that to you when they're meeting you for the first time.

"I'm Greg."

"Greg or Gregory?"

"_Greg_." He hates being called 'Gregory'. Only his parents call him that, and only when they're very angry at him. "Greg Lestrade."

Mycroft nods. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Greg Lestrade." His grip on his hand is firm, practiced. Greg shakes back awkwardly. His hand is sweaty and smeared with wax shavings. Mycroft looks disapproving when he wipes his palm on his trousers.

"Your name's really Mycro?" Greg asks once his hand is dry.

"Mycroft."

"Mycroff?"

"Mycrof-_t_."

Greg tries again but Mycroft just shakes his head and repeats his name. Greg gives up after the fifth time. He's not very good with pronouncing words that end with an 'f' and a 't'. His father says he's a little slow in picking up things like that, but he'll learn, eventually. At least he doesn't have a lisp like Kendra Pelletier. "Myc?" he asks.

Mycroft seems to think about that for a while. "My," he finally says. "I don't like the name 'Mike' very much. It's rather common."

"You talk weird," Greg informs him. Mycroft does talk weird, like he's much older than Greg, older than his father, even. When Mycroft says nothing, Greg thinks that he may have offended him. He looks at Mycroft, then, and fishes for a compliment. "I like your hair," he finally says.

Mycroft's hair is quite interesting. It's neatly parted to the right and is such a vibrant shade of red that it makes him look like a human tomato in his large orange jacket. Greg's own hair is dark and unruly, a fact that has never escaped his mother's notice. He thinks about her right now, a little bit glad that she's not here to flatten his hair with a comb.

Mycroft says 'thank you' again. "I like your smell, too," Greg adds because it really is quite nice to hear Mycroft say 'thank you'. And he does smell nice. Greg can't describe it exactly, but it's certainly not like the sweet scent his mother has.

Mycroft doesn't thank him this time, though. Instead he looks annoyed, like Greg has just done something wrong. Greg then remembers his mother telling him it's impolite to go announcing people's natural scents like that. Betas hate it, but Mycroft's an Alpha. It's obvious from his appearance, even more from his scent. He should be flattered, right?

"My mum lost my sister," Greg tells him instead, feeling a bit angry with Mycroft and himself because of his mistake. "My Aunt Louise said she had an accident and the baby just went away."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"How about you?" Greg wonders who Mycroft has lost, or if he's lost anyone at all. He doesn't look sad. But then, Greg thinks he doesn't look sad, either. He wasn't really too keen on the idea of having someone to share his parents' attention.

Smiling slightly, Mycroft sits up, as though he's trying to look important, then says, "My baby brother was born a few hours ago," he says quite proudly. Greg knows for a fact that he didn't have anything to do with it, but he keeps quiet because it's the polite thing to do. "He was born too early, though, so he's in an incubator right now."

Greg frowns at the word 'incubator'. "Your brother's a chicken?" he asks, remembering that time his uncle brought him to the petting zoo. A man in a farmer's hat had shown him where they placed the eggs. He wonders if the reason why his mother's belly is so big is because there's a huge egg in there. And it cracked and his little sister got out somehow.

Panicking, he thinks of how he accidentally dropped one of the eggs the farmer had handed to him. The man had laughingly told him he'd killed a living creature then threatened to call the police, much to Mr Joyce's annoyance. The yolk had seeped through his laces while he stood there, shaking uncontrollably. He trembles now as he thinks over and over again that maybe _he_ killed his sister.

Mycroft looks at him, confused, but before he can say anything, a tall man with Mycroft's colouring approaches them. "Come now," the man says to Mycroft in a bored voice.

"Goodbye," Mycroft says, as proper as ever. He shakes Greg's hand one more time before he follows his father to the elevator. As soon as the doors close, Greg begins to cry. The mopey teenager who's sitting next to his mother looks at him strangely, but says nothing. Sitting the bench across his, a woman cries as well, though it's nothing like Greg's. Her wails are loud and frightening enough to make Greg stop.

"What's the matter with you?" his father asks when he emerges from the elevator where Mycroft and his father disappeared. He picks him up even though he's already far too big for that. "Are you upset because of your mum?"

Greg nods then buries his face in the space between his neck and shoulder His scent is bland, quite unlike his mother's. "I think I broke Mum's egg," he says, his voice muffled, before he begins to cry again.

* * *

His mother is due to stay in the hospital for two weeks. Greg misses her terribly. He's not allowed to see her every day because of school. His Aunt Louise has decided to stay with him until his mother is better again as his father has to work and no one will be there to look after him. Greg doesn't like Aunt Louise very much. She's a Beta like his father so she doesn't have his mother's nice smell. She does the wrong things as well, like giving him eggs for breakfast even though she has been told countless of times that Greg's allergic to them. Also, looking at eggs just makes him feel ill. His father had sat him down when they returned from the hospital and explained to him that no, he had no part in the death of his sister, and that it had already happened before to his mother. He failed to convince Greg, however. Just the mere sight of an egg has Greg thinking of dead babies.

The morning after his first visit, they threw all her things away. Pink was the only thing that came to Greg's mind when his father loaded the baby furniture in the back of the car. His father sold what he could, then tossed away what he couldn't. It wasn't a very fun trip. His father drove too fast and spoke too little. "We were going to call her Angela," he told Greg over the screeching of the tires, over the mockingly happy music the radio played. "After your grandmother."

There are two dead Angela Lestrades, one who lived past seventy, another who didn't live at all. And before Angela, before Greg, there was Mitchell and Joseph. Greg thinks about the brothers and sister he will never have. It makes him feel awfully lonely.

Visits to the hospital make him happy. He still doesn't like the waiting room, but at least he doesn't have to stay there very long anymore. His mother is better now, though she does look a little grey and has tubes sticking out of her arm. Her smell has reverted to the less sweeter one that she had before she became pregnant. Her belly, still large, is empty beneath her hospital gown. Greg refuses to touch it.

He meets Mycroft again the third time he visits his mother. They're in the hospital's cafeteria, one table apart from each other. Mycroft looks bored. He's sitting next to his father who's talking to someone on his phone in an angry voice. Greg waves at Mycroft.

"Who's that, Greg?" his father asks as he looks up from the magazine he's reading. He does a double-take when he sees the man Mycroft's with, then grins and stands up as soon as the other man's put his phone away. Greg leaves his food unfinished then follows his father to Mycroft's table.

Mycroft's wearing a blue coat today. Greg likes it better than the orange one. It doesn't make his hair too hard to look at. "Our parents know each other," he says as they watch his father and Mycroft's shake hands.

"Hello," Mycroft tells him. "You should really say 'hello' when you're meeting someone."

"Oh. Well, hello."

Mycroft nods approvingly. "Your father works for mine," Mycroft tells him. "Didn't you know?"

Greg shakes his head. The only thing he knows about his father's work is that it brings in a lot of money and has something to do with credit cards. He sneaks a glance at Mr Holmes. He doesn't really look like Mycroft, he realises. He's scarier-looking and has very strange eyes. He looks away when they land on Greg's face, then looks again when Mr Holmes is no longer staring at him.

"Would you like to see my brother?" Mycroft asks him.

"Um, okay."

Their parents are too busy talking. Mycroft assures him that he knows his way around, anyway, and that they'll be back shortly. He looks back at Greg when they leave the cafeteria. "Would you like me to hold your hand?" he asks.

Greg blinks. "Why?"

"You're an Omega," Mycroft points out. "and I'm your escort."

Greg looks at his hand. His fingernails are too long and dirty and his palm is sweaty and smeared with mayonnaise. Mycroft looks at Greg's hand as well with a small frown. "No thanks," Greg says as he shoves both hands in his pockets. Mycroft doesn't say it but Greg thinks he looks relieved.

The elevator is a little complicated but Mycroft shows him how to make it work. He pushes the button that leads to the sixth floor. The ride up is uncomfortable but Greg puts on a brave face and tries to ignore the way it seems to flatten his stomach. The only person with them is the same miserable teenager Greg saw in the waiting room. There's a thick white bandage wrapped around his wrist. Greg wants to ask him what that's for but Mycroft silences him with a look.

The floor they go to is quite different from the others. The walls here aren't white, but a soft blue, the same colour as Mycroft's jacket. There are large windows. Greg looks out at one and sees a large room with a lot of small cots. "Oh," he says when he sees the newborn infants. He turns to Mycroft. "Where's your brother, then?"

Mycroft leads him farther. Greg follows until they reach an isolated part of the floor. A man in a dark suit walks by then stops to talk to Mycroft. "Here to see your brother again, right?" the man—a doctor, Greg thinks—asks. He talks to Mycroft as if they've known each other for a long time. Greg decides the doctor must be a relative. He has the same hair colour as Mycroft's and the same pale eyes as Mr Holmes.

"That's my uncle. He's the director," Mycroft explains. He moves Greg in front of another window, a smaller one this time. Greg has to stand on his toes just to see through it.

"My brother Sherlock's there."

There aren't beds here but small tanks that remind Greg of their aquarium back home. Only a few are occupied. Mycroft points at the one to the left. Inside, a tiny infant sleeps deeply. He has tubes through his nose, and he's naked but for a nappy and a small woolly hat. Greg looks at him. Little Sherlock doesn't look like a healthy baby. He's far too pale, so much that Greg can see the blue veins mapped beneath his skin. "He doesn't look very healthy," he admits to Mycroft. "Is he going to live, then?"

Mycroft doesn't look happy about that. In fact, he doesn't talk to Greg at all during the elevator ride back. "I'm sorry," he says once they get back to their fathers. Neither of them seems to have noticed their absence.

"I forgive you." He shakes his hand again when they're about to leave. Mycroft wrinkles his nose slightly when they shake hands. "Goodbye, Greg."

"See you soon?"

"Of course."

They meet each other several times in the hospital until his mother is released and Sherlock is ready to go home.

"You should give him a gift," Greg tells Mycroft. "Sherlock, I mean. That's what I did when my cousin was born."

"What did you give her?"

Greg frowns. "I bought something in the gift shop. Do you know where that is?"

The gift shop is in the ground floor, near the cafeteria. Mycroft and the lady behind the counter watch as Greg rummages through the merchandise. He dismisses the brightly-coloured cards and the balloons that hang overhead. Mycroft shakes his head at each stuffed animal Greg shows him. "Too boring," he says to the brown bear. "Too frightening," he says to the clown that Greg has to admit _is_ frightening. "Too mediocre," he says to the yellow rabbit. Greg makes mental note of asking him later what 'mediocre' means. "Sherlock is a boy," Mycroft says, annoyed, when Greg holds up a Raggedy Anne by mistake.

"How about this then?" Greg asks, pulling out a strange hybrid of a bear and a bee. He holds it at arms-length and looks at it for a moment. "This looks weird."

Mycroft takes it from his hands then turns it around. For a long time, he eyes it critically. The lady behind the counter rolls her eyes at them and asks if they even have money to pay for it. "I do, actually," Mycroft tells her as he puts the bee/bear on the counter. Her eyes widen a little at the money Mycroft hands to her but she bags the toy nonetheless and gives Mycroft his change. He studies her for a moment, then adds, "Good luck with your date tonight, by the way."

Greg doesn't miss the stunned expression on the woman's face. "How'd you know?" he asks once they're outside. "Are you psychic?"

Mycroft scowls at him. "Of course not. She has dark shadows under her eyes from lack of sleep and her hair tells me she went to the salon. She keeps looking at the clock as well, then to her phone. Her lipstick is red so it brings attention to her mouth. It's not a business meeting, then. It's a first date, I think."

"Cool," Greg says. He looks at Mycroft admiringly. "Do me, then."

"You want to be a detective when you're older."

Greg stares at him, open-mouthed. "How'd you know?"

Mycroft points at his shirt. It's Greg's favourite, the Tintin one, so it's more than a little faded. "You draw cop cars a lot as well." Mycroft pauses then says, "Cop cars aren't red by the way, nor are they purple."

Greg sticks his tongue out at him. Mycroft looks away but Greg thinks that, for a moment, Mycroft actually smiled at him.

* * *

The house is silent when his mother comes home. When his parents talk to each other, they do so in quiet voices. Greg no longer likes it when they talk to him. It's as if they're clamouring for his attention. His mother keeps telling him she loves him, while his father brings him a new toy almost every night. Frankly, it's just suffocating. Greg knows it's wrong, but he does his best to hide from them, anyway.

"That's not very nice," Luke, his friend and cousin, tells him one day. They're in the park, searching for bugs. Luke's mother was watching them closely a moment ago, but found a friend to talk with and has left Greg the responsibility of making sure Luke doesn't do anything dumb.

It is a difficult job.

Greg looks over his shoulder and sees that both women are seated on a bench, talking about their children and complaining about their partners. A part of Greg wishes they'd pay attention to them because Luke is now wading through the shallow part of the pond.

"They're always talking to me. How would you like it if your parents talked to you whenever you're watching cartoons?" Greg complains as he digs up a rock. Luke watches as he throws it. The pebble skips over the water three times before it disappears.

They search for rocks for a moment but none of them are the right one. "I'll get it back," Luke assures him. Greg doubts he'll be able to do it. The pebble sank far away.

"I don't think you should go farther. You might fall," Greg warns him.

Luke snorts. He rolls up his trousers even though the legs are already soaked through. "No, I won't." He walks farther, slipping a little as he moves through the muddy bank. Greg looks over his shoulder again. Aunt Isobel and her new friend are laughing hysterically.

The water is nearly up to Luke's knees when Greg looks back. He panics a little. "If you don't stop, I'm telling Aunt Isobel," he threatens.

Luke narrows his eyes at him. "Do it and I'll hit you."

Greg thinks about it for a moment. Luke is taller than him, but skinnier. He doesn't know how to punch either but he has a hard kick. He's not above biting either. Greg pulls back the sleeve of his jumper and looks at the part where Luke bit him the last time they had a fight. It's old but Greg can still see the imprint of his teeth quite clearly.

"Aunt Isobel!" Greg yells, managing to get the name out before Luke clamps a hand over his mouth and tackles him to the muddy grass. They roll away from the water. Luke's pulling at his hair but Greg manages to get the upper hand by hitting Luke's face. By the time Greg's done, Luke's sitting on the grass, sobbing.

"I hate you!" he cries. There's mud above his right eyebrow and his jaw is a little red from where Greg's fist landed. "I never want to see you again!"

"We live next to each other, doofus!" Greg yells back.

'Your face is stupid!"

Greg pushes him a little. Luke gets up and pushes back, harder. "You're stupid!" Greg shouts.

"Your mum's ugly," Luke taunts, no longer crying.

Aunt Isobel isn't ugly and neither is his mother but all reason flies out the window when you're having a fight. "Yours is as well!" Greg counters.

"Your grandparents stink."

Greg pauses for a moment then yells back, "We have the same grandparents, dummy!"

They tackle each other half-heartedly. Luke gets the upper hand this time, but doesn't do anything other than lightly slap Greg's cheek. He rolls off then lies quite still on the grass. A fly lands on the tip of Luke's nose but he doesn't even shoo it away.

"I'm hungry," he says, finally. "I want ice cream."

Luke's the only one who has money but it's enough to buy them a cone, each. "Your mum made a new friend," Greg tells him as they make their way to the vendor. There are already other children there. Luke grabs his hand and makes him walk faster.

"That's nice, I guess." He hands Greg his ice cream. Cocking his head to one side, he asks, "Do you know what a 'wanker' is?"

Greg shakes his head. "No. Why?"

"My older sister called me that." Luke frowns then turns to the vendor, an old man with a cartoonish smile. "Hey, mister, do you know what a 'wanker' is?"

For some reason, the man's smile disappears and is replaced by a scowl. One of the older kids laughs. Luke turns to her and repeats the question but she merely shakes her head and goes away, laughing all the time. Greg is beginning to get the feeling that that word shouldn't be said to other people.

Luke, however, doesn't stop. Gran said it's because Luke has something called ADHD, which makes him really hyper. Gran also said it's because he's an Alpha and Alpha kids usually have that. Greg wonders if this is true as Luke is the only young Alpha he's met who has the attention span of a goldfish.

Greg watches as he moves to another kid. "How about you?" Luke asks. "Do you know what a 'wanker' is?"

"I have several ideas."

Greg's eyes widen when he realises its Mycroft. He's wearing a lurid red jacket this time, one that nearly hurts to look at. "Hello, My," Greg greets happily. It's the first time he's ever seen Mycroft outside school and the hospital.

To his surprise, Mycroft smiles back at him. "Hello, Greg." He eyes Luke strangely. "Your cousin?"

"Yeah. His name's Luke. My's a detective." Greg says this last to Luke who stares at Mycroft openly.

"Of sorts."

Luke blinks at him. "You talk weird," he says in a tone that dares Mycroft to disagree. Mycroft says nothing, though, which is just as well. Greg thinks that Mycroft's not the type of kid who enjoys wrestling.

"What's that?" Luke asks. He's already moved away from Greg and is now staring at the push chair behind Mycroft.

"It's 'who', actually." Mycroft sounds peeved. Greg quickly grabs Luke by the scruff of his neck and makes him move away from it. "My baby brother. Don't wake him."

With permission, Greg looks at Sherlock. He's not so sickly looking now but he's still awfully pale. The weird bee/bear Mycroft bought for him is lying next to him. "Stupid bear," Luke mumbles in a low voice. Fortunately, Mycroft doesn't hear it.

"Mummy assigned me to take care of him," he tells Greg proudly. "She's there, talking to a friend, but she says I'm old enough to watch out for him—Do. Not. Push. That."

Luke scowls but obediently removes his hands from the handle. Greg glares at him until he backs away from the push chair. "I'm supposed to tell on you if you do something bad," Greg reminds him.

"And I'm supposed to protect you!" Luke argues. He glares at Mycroft this time. "He's an Alpha. Mum said you're not supposed to talk to them."

"I'm talking to you!"

"We're family." Luke eyes Mycroft critically. "He's not."

Mycroft glowers at Luke. Greg wonders if they'll fight. He's kind of hoping they will. Maybe Mycroft's good at wrestling and just doesn't look it.

"I will be, actually," Mycroft says, his eyes still trained on Luke. "I heard Father talking to Mummy. I'm going to marry Greg."

Greg looks up from his ice cream in confusion. "What?" he asks.

Mycroft isn't able to answer, though. Luke throws his ice cream away then immediately tackles Mycroft to the ground.


	2. Something New, Borrowed, and Unexpected

"I don't have to kiss him right?" Greg asks, his mouth full of chewed up bits of fried chicken. Next to him, Luke is fighting with his own meal. A few peas bounce from his plate and onto Greg's. Greg looks away from the grown-ups to glare at Luke who is now piling pea after pea on the edge of Greg's plate.

His mother shakes her head. "Of course not, sweetheart, you're still too young to do that. Luke, honey, please stop putting your veggies on Greg's plate."

Luke stops but does it again when Greg's mother begins to talk to Aunt Isobel. Greg retaliates by grabbing the bottle of hot sauce and squirting a great amount on Luke's meal. "Get the mustard," Luke orders him. He doesn't seem to understand that Greg is avenging his food. Together, they pour condiment after condiment until there's a huge mess on not only the plate, but the paper placemat beneath it as well.

"You're going to die hungry," Greg warns him, mid-squeeze. "Unless you eat that."

Luke frowns at the thick brown soup that was, just a few seconds ago, a half-finished meal of fried chicken and rice. "Muuuum," he whines, banging his fork on the table to get their attention. An accusing finger is suddenly pointed at Greg. "Greg messed with my food."

"I didn't do it!" Greg yells. A few people turn their heads to look at the noisy family. "It was Luke!"

Luke gapes at him. "It was not!" he says loudly. "He tricked me!"

In the end, it is both their fault. Greg's mother apologises to the manager, who has come out to inspect the noise, while Aunt Isobel drags them outside and scolds them. She slaps the back of their hands for good measure. The slaps aren't hard but they do the job of leaving both boys ashamed of themselves.

"Now you two behave or else we'll go home right now," she warns.

"Still your fault," Luke mumbles but he grabs Greg's hand and tugs him forward.

The tailor making Greg and Luke's suits is an ancient Omega who keeps mistaking Luke for Greg and Greg for Luke. Neither children like her very well, but they forget that as soon as Madame Siccion brings out their suits. "Why's yours black?" Luke complains when Greg tries his on. It's a perfect fit and when they make him face the mirror, they coo over him and tell him how handsome he looks. Greg doesn't really feel handsome. He stares at the little boy in the mirror and thinks that he looks the same, only with nicer clothes.

"Yours is nice," Greg tells Luke who's also wearing his. It's brown, though, a colour Greg knows Luke dislikes. Apparently, neon green is not an acceptable colour to wear in a formal event. But colour aside, the suit does look nice. It's not like Greg's. Madame Siccion says it's more like Mycroft's, though Greg has yet to see what Mycroft's looks like. Mycroft won't even tell him what colour it is. He wonders if it will be red or orange, like Mycroft's coats.

"You also get that ring," Greg adds, pointing at the silver band around the ring finger of Luke's right hand. "I want one."

"You're getting a mate and you still want a ring? Greedy," Luke jeers.

"I am not!"

"Yes you are."

To make matters worse, he twists the ring around his finger and tells Greg how shiny it looks and how cool it is. Greg glares at him. His mum told him countless of times already that only Luke gets a ring because he's Greg's sentinel and only sentinels get the ring. The only thing that stops him from stealing the ring from Luke is the knowledge that Mycroft doesn't get a ring, either.

Luke turns to his mother while still playing with the ring. "What does a sedinel do again, anyway?"

Aunt Isobel turns to Greg's mum. "It's sentinel, love. You look after Greg until he and Mycroft bond properly," she tells him.

Both children just look at her.

"You make sure that he and Mycroft are getting along. It's more of a position, actually, not exactly a duty, Kind of like being the best man. The ring—it's a symbol that you're a witness to their pre-bond. At least, that's what I think. I'm not too familiar with pre-bonding ceremonies since they're really just for aristocratic families."

Neither of them say anything. Finally, Aunt Isobel sighs then says to Luke, "You just make sure no Alphas hurt Greg, not even Mycroft."

Luke frowns. "But I've been doing that my whole life! Why's it only now I get this ring?"

"It's because you're stupid," Greg says simply. Any other time, Luke would attack him and they'd have a wrestling match, but he's far too distracted by the ring on his finger. It's really just a simple silver band which will be replaced every time Luke gets bigger and it's not even expensive. But it's shiny. Greg likes shiny things.

He doesn't care if it means he's greedy. That ring is quite nice.

"I like this seminal thing," Luke announces.

"It's sentinel, sweetheart," Aunt Isobel corrects.

"Sedinel, Seminel. Sentinel," Luke says each word carefully. "Sentinel. Yeah, that's right. I like it."

"And why's that?"

Luke smiles sweetly. "It makes it okay to hurt Mycroft."

* * *

"How about Greek mythology?" Mycroft asks. He takes a seat on the armchair beside Sherlock's crib then opens the book with a bit of difficulty due to its heavy weight. An illustration of Kronos eating his children appears. Mycroft frowns at the gory image then turns the page until it lands on an illustration of a baby Hermes constructing a lyre. He lifts the book up as much as he can and shows the drawing to Sherlock.

"This is you," he says as he turns the page. The picture changes to the interaction Hermes and Apollo. "And that's me," he adds, pointing at the older of the two gods. "They're brothers, like us."

Sherlock blinks at the picture before focusing his eyes once more on the stuffed animal Mycroft bought for him. He thrusts a small hand through the bars and makes grabbing motions. Mycroft sighs and closes the book once more.

"You're so attached to this," Mycroft says as he picks the toy from the floor. "You can't bring this all the time with you when you're older, Sherlock."

Sherlock, of course, doesn't understand any of it. At four-months-old, all he understands is that Mycroft is family and that the bee/bear must always be within his sight. Mycroft is quite pleased that Sherlock likes it so much. He dangles the toy over the crib and watches as Sherlock giggles and tries to make a grab for it.

"That's unclean, Sherlock," Mycroft chides when Sherlock latches his mouth onto one of the bear's ears. He whines when Mycroft tries to pry it off him, his face crumpling in a way that warns Mycroft Sherlock's about to have a good cry. He lets him have it in in the end. His hand itches and he wants so much to take the bear out of Sherlock's mouth but he stops himself and settles instead for stroking the soft black curls on Sherlock's head.

"Greg chose that," Mycroft says. Father once told him not to talk to Sherlock so much since he doesn't really understand but Mycroft enjoys it.

Besides, there's no one else to talk to.

"We're going to have a pre-bond," Mycroft continues. Sherlock has stopped chewing on the bear's ear and is now staring at him. "Then when we're older we're going to bond and then marry."

He's not exactly sure how he feels about the pre-bond, but Father tells him it's his duty, that it will make him proud if he goes through with it. Mycroft likes making Father proud of him, and frankly, Greg is nice, although a little slow. The only bad thing about having a pre-bond with him is Luke Rochewell who Mycroft really, really does not like. He asked Mummy if they can just discard the tradition of having a sentinel but Mummy forbade it and said that it's really the choice of the Omega's family since they're the one's going to choose the sentinel in the first place.

"It's not bad to have Luke as Greg's guardian," Mummy told him while Madame Siccion was taking his measurements. "Luke's there to make sure no one hurts Greg when he's away from you. And besides, you'll have an Alpha friend."

Mycroft did not tell Mummy that having Luke as a sentinel is a disadvantage as it means he's been given permission to hurt Mycroft if he ever does something bad to Greg. He may be a year younger but he's violent. His behaviour is just like those of the other kids in school, the ones who tease Mycroft for being too clever. Mycroft's eyes fall on the scrapes on his fingers, made more obvious against the black background that's Sherlock's hair. It was Evan who pushed him for getting the answer to Mr Irving's question right.

At least he didn't cry.

Distantly, Mycroft hears a door slam shut, followed by voices. Father fighting with Mummy again. He's in a horrible mood. Father doesn't shout often but when he does, it means that he's very angry at something and that Mycroft had better stay away. He can't hear what they're arguing about but their voices scare Sherlock. He begins to sob.

"Don't cry," Mycroft chides. Father is already in a bad mood and Sherlock's crying will only worsen it. Sherlock, however, only cries harder.

Mycroft looks around, searching for a distraction. There are actually a lot of things to distract Sherlock. His room is cluttered with toys and picture books, gifts from family members who got excited about having another male Omega in the family after several years. Mycroft picks one toy after the other, showing them to Sherlock but they don't make him stop weeping. The bee/bear is already in his crib and that's the one thing that can make Sherlock stop crying. Mycroft walks around quickly until he finds the music box. It's a small, simple thing. Not expensive either. On the lid, engraved in the dark word are the words _from Jon W_. Mycroft has no idea who Jon W. but his gift does the trick of calming Sherlock down.

He sets it on the armrest then pops opens the lid. A song Mycroft identifies as "Für Elise" plays. It's not enough to drown out their parents' voices but it's enough to distract Sherlock. He looks at the box curiously then thrusts his arm out and points at it. Mycroft ignores him this time. He picks up the mythology book and takes a seat in the armchair.

He can still hear them. Mycroft looks at his brother. Sherlock's sucking his thumb now, sleepy and content.

There's a sound of glass breaking, followed by another sound, one Mycroft identifies as his mother crying.

Mycroft opens the book and begins to read out loud.

* * *

Since his parents sat him down and explained to him why he's going to have a pre-bond with Mycroft, Greg has been going to the Holmes' estate. Before, the Holmes' estate was merely the huge house up on the hill that seemed to exist in a world of its own. Now it has become Greg's favourite place in the world. He likes the enormous house with the many rooms and he likes the miniature forest and the huge pond where they can go searching for frogs. Luke, because of his sentinel duties, has to go with him as well.

Mycroft doesn't like it. He and Luke haven't liked each other since Luke tackled Mycroft to the ground and hit him again and again until the ice cream vendor pulled them apart. Greg tries not to mind it, but it's hard when both boys keep demanding his attention. Mycroft deserves more of it, of course, because Greg's going to have a pre-bond with him and he and Luke have known each other since they were born. But if also feels like a betrayal to Luke when Greg spends time with Mycroft.

So Greg just does the next best thing and hangs out with little Sherlock.

"Don't touch him", Mycroft snipes at Luke who has just prodded Sherlock's cheek with his finger. The ring around his finger has been polished and is now gleaming brightly against his pale skin. Greg looks at it enviously.

"Too late, I already did it," Luke says back, his hand still hovering over Sherlock's face. They narrow their eyes at each other, and Greg can already see it, can already see Luke tackling Mycroft and hitting him again, maybe with Sherlock's rattle. There are no adults in the room and if they fight, Sherlock will cry, and Greg definitely doesn't want to hear that again. His eardrums nearly burst the last time Sherlock had a tantrum. He looks at both boys quickly, searching for a solution.

"Your suit looks cool," Greg says to Mycroft quickly just as Luke straightens himself. It's grey but what Greg really likes is the silver tie pin, the one that's shaped like an owl. Greg thinks that it's also unfair that Mycroft gets something shiny. He doesn't complain, though. Mycroft has this way of looking at him, like he's far too young and doesn't understand anything. Greg hates that look. He may be a year younger and Mycroft might be a lot smarter than him, but he's not stupid. Luke is.

Mycroft frowns at him. "You've said that before," he points out. Luke is staring at Greg disbelievingly, but luckily doesn't say anything as Sherlock has grabbed onto Luke's finger and has started gnawing on his sentinel ring.

"Ew, stop that!"

"Sherlock, that's dirty," Mycroft scolds over Luke's screaming to get Sherlock away from his hand before he chews it off. Greg clamps his hands over his ears. They don't stop arguing until the door opens and Mycroft's mother walks in. She stands in the threshold for a moment, taking in everything: Luke's saliva-covered ring, Mycroft's messy hair which Luke pulled to make it stand at a funny angle, Greg with his hands over his ears, and Sherlock still trying to grab onto Luke's hand.

"Go outside," she orders them as she carries Sherlock in her arms, "before you wreck the whole house."

Mycroft nods then quickly takes Greg's left hand at the same time Luke takes his right one. They glare at each other.

"Let go," Mycroft tells him.

"No, you let go," Luke says back.

Greg looks at both of them. "I don't really need someone to hold my hand, you know."

But of course, they don't listen to this either, so Greg ends up being tugged back-and-forth between them. Luke lets him go first, but that's only because he gets distracted by the backyard. Greg has to admit that it does look great.

"That's one big cake," Luke says, pointing at the enormous chocolate cake on the buffet table. Greg stares at it as well. It's big enough for him and Luke and Mycroft to get buried alive in. He thinks for a moment that Mycroft doesn't really care about it, but when Greg looks at him, he sees that Mycroft is also looking at the cake with a fascinated expression on his face. He fixes it when he catches Greg looking, feigning disinterest.

"Will it hurt?" Greg asks as Mycroft helps him up one of the high chairs they provided. Mycroft gets on his without difficulty. The doctor, the same auburn-haired man Greg saw in the hospital, pats his head encouragingly.

Mycroft shrugs. "I have no idea," he admits.

Mycroft's mother explained things beforehand. They'll have to do a blood exchange. "It's just like getting shots from the doctor," she said. "It won't hurt at all."

It won't hurt, she said. You'll feel better once it's done, she said.

Mycroft's mother is a liar.

Luke waves at him from the crowd. Greg tries a smile, one that fades quickly when the doctor holds up a syringe with the largest needle Greg has ever seen. "Cool," he hears Luke say as the doctor rubs alcohol on the back of his neck. The liquid cools quickly around his skin. It's a pleasant feeling but it doesn't last long. The needle pierces his skin slowly. Greg can't help it. He screams.

Mycroft's hand is still in his. Greg doesn't meant to, but he squeezes hard until it's over. A smaller needle pierces his skin once more but it's much less painful.

There is something very wrong with adults, Greg thinks as he sobs and shakes in his chair. He's still in pain and yet they're clapping, like he's done the most wonderful thing in the world. Greg remembers the time he fell off his bike and scraped his knee. His mother yelled at him, then, for being reckless. That didn't even hurt. But now his neck feels like it's on fire, and she's just standing there, smiling at him proudly.

Grown-ups are weird.

Mycroft's crying as well, but not as much as him. He's wiping his face quickly, as if he's embarrassed to be seen crying. Greg has no idea why, but the sudden urge to cling to Mycroft hits him hard. He thinks about fighting it for a moment, but his neck still hurts and all he wants is a hug and maybe some of that cake. Mycroft doesn't even fight him off when Greg grabs onto him and buries his face in his shoulder. A few people coo over them, and Greg hears the clicking noises that means someone's taking pictures.

"Sorry," Greg tells Mycroft when he finally releases him. His neck doesn't hurt anymore, but he feels upset again when he sees what he's done to Mycroft's suit. "I got snot on your owl."

Mycroft looks down at his tie pin. "That's fine," he assures him, though Greg isn't very convinced. He keeps looking at the pin with an unhappy expression on his face. In the end, he takes it off and leaves both pin and tie on the table.

Luke is already half-finished with his second slice of cake when Greg and Mycroft join him at the table. The sentinel ring is now covered in frosting and so is the lower part of his face. Greg wonders where Aunt Isobel is. He finds her soon enough and sees that she's been distracted by one of Mycroft's older cousins.

That ring really should be his. Greg's the one looking out for Luke, not the other way around.

"You cried," Luke says to Mycroft happily, his mouth full of cake. Bits of it fly out of his mouth. Mycroft backs away carefully.

The older boy frowns at him disapprovingly. "You made a mess."

Luke doesn't deny it; it's not like he can, anyway. He sets his fork down, takes a long drink from his cup, belches, then announces, quite seriously, "I need to pee."

Greg glares at him. "I'm not going with you! You always get me into trouble."

"Fine," Luke mutters. "You're no fun, anyway."

* * *

Luke isn't allowed to go anywhere alone on his own. He has a penchant for breaking things, his mum said. But he really, really needs to pee, and his parents are too busy making new friends to bother with him. Not even his older sister Naomi will take him. She went off with an older kid who looks like Mycroft. Luke has learned that when his sister with is with a boy, he's not supposed to disturb them.

He still needs to pee.

The house is quiet as most of the guests are outside, drinking and stuffing their faces. Stuffing their faces without him! That's just mean. Luke walks around quickly until he finds the bathroom. It's quite nice, the bathroom. It has a big tub and bottles that smell really nice. Luke pees then just stands there for a moment, wondering if it will be a bad idea if he takes a bath and plays with all the shampoo and lotions.

_That would be very bad. Very, very bad. _

He takes one of the bottles anyway.

The way back, Luke finds, is difficult. The house is really huge and has twisting corridors and after that even more twisting corridors. Luke scratches his head. He's about to go to plan b (scream his head off until someone finds him) when he hears voices in the room next to him.

_Don't look don't look don't look._

Luke stuffs the bottle of bubble bath in his pocket then peers through the small gap. There are two men inside, one of whom he recognises as Mycroft's father. Mr Holmes is sitting while the other man is walking about, carrying something in his arms.

"He looks just like you, Siger," the man says. He's a short man with cropped blond hair and dark blue eyes. Mr Holmes looks at them both with a bored expression.

"He's an Omega," Mr Holmes complains. He makes a face, as if he's just swallowed something disgusting.

The man glares at him. "You talk like he's got a disease. He's adorable."

"Nat," Mr Holmes says, "do you have any idea how hard it will be to raise him? Medical exams, special schools, self-defence lessons…" He wrinkles his nose. "I'll have to find an Alpha for him as well. Yours is one, right? A boy?"

"John?" The man laughs. "He's only three, Sig."

"I don't mean today. When they're older. It will save me some trouble."

"I don't know. Maybe." The man, Nat, grins and looks around the room. "I can't imagine him in this setting, though. You know how we are. We're not…posh."

"You can say that again."

They laugh. Luke scratches his leg. He should go but there's something exciting about listening in on a conversation he's sure he's not supposed to be hearing.

"He looks like Sherrinford, you know?" Mr Holmes says. Nat frowns at him. "Too much like him, in fact."

"You've been seeing him, then?"

Mr Holmes purses his lips. "You don't approve."

Nat rolls his eyes. "Oh come on, Sig. I don't know anything about bonding but I do know you're playing a dangerous game. You can't balance it."

"Says the man who had three girlfriends when he was twenty."

Nat laughs. "Shut up, Holmes, before you poison your son's ears."

Luke doesn't want his ears poisoned. He steps away from the door as quietly as possible then rushes off to wherever the exit is.

He forgets about their exchange once he's reunited with his cake.


	3. Life Goes On

Greg absolutely hates the pre-bond with Mycroft.

Mycroft isn't the problem. Greg likes Mycroft, even though he's not sure Mycroft likes him back. He's smart and talks weird and he's different from all the other kids Greg knows. So no, it isn't Mycroft who's the problem. It's the other kids in school who keep teasing him about it.

His parents tell him to ignore it and that he'll learn to appreciate the bond when he's older, but it's hard to ignore the taunts and the discrimination. Pre-bonds aren't common. They're for posh families who need to preserve the family wealth and make sure they continue to have a good bloodline. But the only thing the kids in school get is that Greg is now in a higher social class than them. They tell him he thinks that they're not good enough for him, even though Greg doesn't think this at all. It's actually _them_ who think they're too good for him. He lost some of his friends, and while he did gain new ones over the years, it still hurts.

But what hurts most is the football.

Roy Hewlett is the new kid, an Alpha who Greg is sure isn't really eight-years-old. He thinks Roy might already be thirteen and is just so stupid that he got held back a lot of times. Luke said this out loud once, and it was lucky for both of them that Roy wasn't able to hear. "He's probably got wax in his ears, anyway," Luke said once they were out of danger. "That or he's just got a booger for a brain."

Greg is good at football, has always been good at it, according to his father who likes to tell stories of how when Greg was still in his mum's belly, he was already wearing trainers. He's even better at it than the Alphas in school, even better than Luke who's own father was a bit of a football star during his university years. He's the only Omega the Alpha kids allow to play with them, and he _still_ beats them.

But Roy 'Booger Brain Hewlett is in the way and is telling him that he can't play at all.

"And why's that?" Greg demands. He's looking up at Roy who is so much bigger than him, but he doesn't feel scared, only angry. The other kids are looking at them nervously. They keep looking back at the school, but they're in the field, far away from any of the teachers. There are older students milling about but Greg knows from experience that they won't do anything and will just stand there, laughing and egging them on.

"You're a sissy," Roy drawls. "You'll probably cry if you lose."

Greg's ears burn. "No, I won't. I've been playing before you even got here."

Roy, however, is unfazed. He merely rolls his eyes then says, "It doesn't change the fact that you're still a sissy." He leans forward a bit, sniffs, then pulls back and wrinkles his nose. "Or better yet, just go somewhere with your stupid mate."

Greg wants to hit him. He nearly does, actually, but his classmate Chuck grabs his arm and shakes his head at him. Roy smirks.

"Greg's been playing with us for a long time now," a kid named Mattie speaks up. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and regards Roy fearfully. "Maybe we could—"

"No," Roy snaps. He draws himself to his full height. Greg's anger fades a little when he does it. He barely comes up to Roy's shoulder. "I'm not letting anyone like him with us."

You'll meet a lot of sexist bastards when you grow up, Naomi, Luke's sister, told him once when she'd picked them up from school. Roy, Greg realises, is the biggest sexist bastard he's ever met. Well, the first, actually, but Greg doubts anyone can beat him. He turns to Luke who's been quiet since he and Greg got to the field. He's staring at Roy with a curious expression, a curious and very, oh so very, dangerous expression.

_Inside voices!_ Greg wants to shout it but Luke is already opening his mouth and landing himself a death sentence.

"Do you know that you smell a lot like a monkey's butt?"

Roy doesn't even ask how Luke knows what a monkey's butt smells like. He pulls back his arm then slams a fist in the centre of Luke's face. There's a sickening _crunch _followed by a howl of pain. Greg jumps back as his cousin crumples to the ground, his hands already cupping his bleeding nose. "Wanker!" Luke yells through his fingers.

"You want some more, wise boy?" Roy threatens, shaking his fist at them.

_He doesn't! Ignore him, he can't control himself. He's kind of stupid._

Luke glares at him, and, to Greg's annoyance and admiration, spits a combination of blood and saliva in Roy's direction. Something solid hits Roy's chest, splattering a bit of blood on his white shirt.

"You're an ugly turd, monkey butt!" Luke yells before grabbing Greg by the arm and running as fast as he can.

Greg knows he shouldn't enjoy this, but it's kind of fun to be chased by a big bully. It's like a video game, only the pain is of course, very real. Greg's not bothered by it, though, as they're never caught. The advantage of his being small and Luke's being scrawny is that they can run fast and hide in places others can't fit in.

"Hurry!" Greg yells, laughing a bit as they squeeze through a hole in the chain link fence. Distantly, he hears Roy Hewlett yelling insults at them. But his voice sounds far away and the fear of being caught is distant, leaving only the exhilaration of the chase.

They're far away from the school when they finally slow down, stopping in front of a store. Luke's doubled over, wheezing. Greg leans against the cool shop window and tries to get his breath back. "Naomi," he pants, "will get—really—mad." He gulps some air, waits for his heart to stop beating so quickly, then adds, "She'll go looking for us."

Luke squints at him. His face is smeared red and so is the front of his shirt. The sight is startlingly fascinating. "I lost a tooth," he informs Greg.

That piques Greg's interest. "Really?"

"Yeah. Check it out." He straightens then shows Greg a huge smile. Through the bloody mess that is Luke Rochewell's mouth, Greg sees that his two front teeth are missing. When he closes his mouth slightly, enough for the smile to be less psychotic, Greg laughs and tells him that he now looks like he has fangs.

"You lost two."

Luke blinks then grins again. "No way! That's so cool."

Greg doesn't tell him that Aunt Isobel will blow a gasket when she learns that Luke's been fighting again. He does, however, put his hands on Luke's shoulders to force him to look at him. It's a trick Aunt Isobel's been teaching him. "Inside voices," he tells Luke slowly and carefully. He repeats it again until Luke becomes fed up and moves away from him.

"I know."

"You lost two teeth," Greg points out. "Maybe you _knew_. But then you forgot."

Luke groans. "This is why I don't like it when you hang out with Mycroft. You become a know-it-all."

"Compared to you I _do_ know it all." He pushes Luke a little. "And don't you start in on Mycroft, either. I still haven't forgiven you for last time."

"I didn't mean to sneeze on his face!"

"Yes, you did."

"Did not."

"Did, too."

Luke snarls at him, more beast than boy at the moment, and Greg finds himself responding to it. It's primal, the fighting, though his parents tell him that it's not normal for an Omega to engage in fist fights. Maybe it isn't, but it's exhilarating and satisfying, like how ice feels on a burn, like scratching an itch, maybe.

Soothing is the word. Not exactly the fist that collides with Greg's cheek, but beneath the pain is the feeling of satisfaction.

Luke always loses. Now that Greg's older, he wonders if it's because Luke is weak or he's just taking it easy on Greg due to some misguided attempt at being polite. Another low growl interrupts his thoughts, followed by a sharp nip to Greg's left ear. Greg retaliates by slamming an elbow in Luke's gut. Luke grabs on to his forearms, and they both go down on the pavement. The warm concrete doesn't stop either of them. What does the job is a hand pulling Greg away from Luke by the scruff of his neck, pulling him up until his feet are dangling an inch from the ground.

Naomi sets Greg down gently before she hauls Luke up and swats the back of his head with the rolled-up magazine in her hand. "Bad puppy!" she bites out. Luke, truly like a dog in personality, whimpers a little before he catches himself.

"Dad is going to murder you!" she yells when Luke shows her his missing teeth. There's a real threat in there because Luke suddenly loses the bright smile on his face. He's not a bad man, Mr Rochewell. But he's strict and his voice frightens Luke. Greg knows this, remembers all too well the time Luke burst into tears when they fuelled his father's rage by breaking a window while playing football (entirely Greg's fault). He turns to Greg for assistance.

"Someone hit him," Greg explains. He looks at Naomi, studies her, then adds, "He's a…sexist bastard?"

The change is instant. Greg finds himself being squeezed to death against Luke who tenses in his older sister's arms. Greg knew it would work. Naomi likes things like this, likes defending people's rights and saying things that neither of them understand. They are important, Greg thinks, these things Naomi likes to talk about. However, both Luke and Greg hate it because she always forces them to listen to whatever speech she made up. But it's different now and Greg thanks the gods that she's weird like that because she's hugging them instead of killing them slowly and painfully. "How about a treat?" she asks once she relinquishes her death-grip on them. Before they can even answer, they're taken to a different part of town, the Alpha turf as his mother likes to call it. Greg looks at his surroundings in discomfort, pressing closer to Naomi when a few boys pass by, shouting at each other.

"Not there," Naomi chides when Greg pauses to look at a comic book store. She takes his hand and leads him inside the smaller shop next to it.

The first thing that registers in Greg's mind is the music. It's a loud song, the kind of song that sounds as if there are about three drummers and a guitarist that may have drank far too much coffee or really, really needs to pee. Greg looks for the source of the sound, but is distracted by the great number of shiny acoustic guitars hanging at the back wall. Luke, already enthralled by the place, escapes from Naomi's clutches and runs towards the nearest drum set, only to be stopped by a tall man with his hair tied back in messy ponytail.

"Whoa there, cub," Messy Ponytail says as he picks Luke up and deposits him next to Greg. "Don't mess with the equipment."

"Aren't you that guy in the shower last week?"

Messy Ponytail laughs nervously and doesn't answer the question, his silence telling Greg that he _was_ the man in the shower. He grins when he sees Naomi. "Hey," he says as he wraps his arms around her. They're going to kiss, Greg thinks, but he doesn't get to see it because Luke puts his hands over Greg's eyes.

"What are you doing?" Greg asks as he struggles in Luke's hold.

"You can't see kissing! As your sentinel, I'm not allowing you to see—hey, you're scratching me!"

"No fighting in here!" Naomi yells when Greg bends his knees, ready to launch himself at Luke. They have stopped, thankfully, but her arms are still around him and it just feels weird to see two people wrapped around each other like…Well, whatever it is that likes to wrap around you. Blankets around your ankles in the morning, maybe.

"How about you guys go downstairs?" Messy Ponytail asks. He turns to Luke. "To get yourself cleaned up. You look like a mess."

"Not as much as you."

Greg pinches Luke's side, earning another snarl from him. "There's food down there as well," the man continues, his attention already on Naomi. Whatever animosity Luke feels towards Messy Ponytail fades at the promise of food.

The basement is weird. Greg has always thought of basements as this dark, scary place with a lot of twisting pipes and the sound of water dripping. He has also always thought of it as the best place to lock Luke whenever he annoys Greg (which is often). Luke has always thought of it as the best place to lock Mycroft in when he's being…well, being himself. This then leads to Greg letting Mycroft out and him locking Luke in the basement. In his eight years of living, Greg Lestrade has always thought that basements are a No Kid's Land.

He has never thought that he would see it as a small paradise.

There is a water bed. That alone is enough to make Greg think how cool this place is. "Jump on it," Luke dares and Greg doesn't even need to be told twice.

"So who is he then?" Greg asks as he jumps up and down and up and down. He hasn't even removed his shoes but Messy Ponytail's anger is, at the moment, not the first thing in Greg's mind. The only thing in his mind right now is to jump and jump until he gets tired or he breaks the water bed.

"Naomi's stupid boyfriend," Luke mutters. He takes off his blood-splattered uniform and dons one of Messy Ponytail's shirts. It's far too big for him and looks almost like a dress but Greg doesn't comment on it because something has distracted him. He stops jumping and just stares at the shirt for a long time, feeling a mixture of dread and fascination as he looks.

"That's a bad shirt," he says finally.

"No, it's not."

Greg points at the black letters across Luke's chest. "It is. The word."

Luke frowns at his shirt. "Buzzcocks?"

"That word!" Greg yells. At the moment, he feels like he's much older than Luke and far more responsible. Well, even more than usual. "I'm telling on you!"

"It is not!" Luke yells back but his face is a little pale and he's looking at the shirt like he wants to tear it off and burn it. They both glance at the door leading up the music store then at each other.

"Don't."

"You said it."

"I say 'wanker' all the time!"

"That's different and you know it."

"You're such a square," Luke argues.

"I'm not a shape, you idiot."

Luke stares at him defiantly. He takes a deep breath, his fists raised, and Greg wonders if they will fight again. He slides off the bed and gets ready for it but the fists never come. Only Luke's voice.

"COCK!" he yells loudly. Greg doesn't know why, but it may be the fear he feels towards that word, that or the fear of what will come later if Naomi hears. He has tasted lye soap before and it was a mistake, a huge mistake he no longer wants to commit because lye soap truly tastes disgusting. So it is fear, the deep-seated fear brought by that word that makes Greg Lestrade move and tackle his cousin to the ground.

(A few years later, a fourteen-year-old Greg Lestrade will suddenly think about this moment while drinking a cup of coffee, and it will make him laugh and—unfortunately—spill coffee all over his date, that being one Mycroft Holmes who will just look at him a little exasperatedly, a little fondly, and tell him that coffee just spurted out of his nose).

There is nothing playful about it this time and Luke, finally showing his true strength, manages to shove Greg away and slam him against the turntable. There is a brief flash of pain but Greg ignores this and Luke ignores this. They stand, just about to leap at each other once more when there is a hissing sound, followed by a guitar and the deep voice of a man, so riveting that it distracts them both.

"That's a cool song," Luke says after a moment of listening.

"Yeah," Greg admits.

They look at each other again and in silent agreement, they sit down and take out Messy Ponytail's box of 45's. "Johnny Cash," Greg says, holding up the empty sleeve holding the vinyl record currently playing.

Luke stares at the sleeve sombrely. A part of Greg somehow knows that this is the beginning, the start of a summer—no, _years_—of admiration towards big bands and loud noises and when they're a little older, the near godlike worshipping of _leather_. But for now it's just them and the turntable and quite a lot of Johnny Cash and Elvis Presley.

The record stops. Greg turns to his cousin.

"Play it again."

* * *

The bookshelf is burning.

Mycroft immediately drops his book and watches in shock as several first-edition novels are consumed in flames. The fire's not big, not by a longshot, but Mycroft's two-year-old brother is standing before it, naked from the waist down (again) and has one of Father's lighters in one hand.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft yells just as the sprinklers are activated, dousing both of them in cold water. The books are ruined, Mycroft thinks, and he thanks the higher beings that Father is abroad again. He can't hide it from Mummy, of course, but Father won't return until next month which will give them enough time to hide most of the damage.

"Come here," Mycroft orders. Sherlock just blinks at him, looks at the lighter, then brings the device to his mouth. Mycroft quickly snatches it out of his hand, causing Sherlock to whine and stamp his foot.

"MINE!"

"No, not yours. This is Father's."

Sherlock is aware that it's Fathers. Mycroft knows this because Sherlock has been told countless of times already to not go in Father's study, but Sherlock, only a few weeks shy from his second birthday, thinks that everything in the world belongs to him. He thinks that Mummy's pearls belongs to him, that Mycroft's new telescope belongs to him. He even thinks that _Greg_ belongs to him. And while Greg sort of does belong to Mycroft and him to Greg, there is something extremely wrong about a child claiming a human being as his sole property.

Sherlock is spoiled. He destroys and steals things and if you scold him, he will either cry shrilly or attack you with his fists or the nearest object in hand. It is not Mummy's fault and it's definitely not Father's, who gets headaches whenever he's around Sherlock for too long. It is Mycroft's fault, perhaps, because he's not as strict as Father is towards Sherlock. He is certain that it is their relatives fault as they have a great part in Sherlock's overindulgence. They don't live with him so they don't know how wild he can be. To them, Sherlock is just this little angel who needs to be pampered all the time because of his status as an Omega. To them, little Sherlock can't even hurt a fly. Mycroft never bothers to tell them the story of how Sherlock accidentally (?) killed a pigeon. They won't believe him, anyway.

Sherlock whines again and begins to hit Mycroft's knees with his fists. "Give!" he shrieks, trying to grab the lighter. Mycroft holds it high, ignoring the sharp pain brought by the hard kick Sherlock delivers to his shin. For a moment, he thinks that this shouldn't be his life. He is only nine-years-old. He should do what other nine-year-olds do, like what Greg and Luke enjoy doing (though football and roughhousing has never truly appealed to him). But instead he's here, making sure his baby brother doesn't wreck the house or get himself killed.

"You need a time out," Mycroft scolds as he picks up Sherlock and takes him out of the library. He squirms in Mycroft's arms and even tries to bite him but Mycroft has learned how to hold Sherlock without getting hurt—throw him over your shoulder and press your arm against his legs to stop him from kicking you. That leaves his back in a vulnerable position but as Sherlock's legs are the most dangerous part of him, Mycroft thinks it's a worthy sacrifice.

The sitter is, as Mycroft expected, just coming up the stairs. She's young, only a student. Normally, Mummy would never hire anyone so young, but so-and-so needed help in her charity ball or grand dinner or whatever it is rich women do when they have too much time on their hands. And the household staff can't be bothered to look after Sherlock—they're too busy cleaning up the mess Sherlock makes.

"Why are you two so wet?" she asks. Mycroft says nothing and just stares at her. She didn't do her job, he thinks. Sherlock could have fallen somewhere or cut himself or he could have plunged a fork in the electrical socket (again). He worries about Sherlock a lot, because, while Sherlock may be a hellion, Mycroft does love him. There is also the fact that he fears what his parents might say if they see that he's neglected his brother.

And it's her fault. Sherlock smells faintly of smoke, and the scent makes him aware of the wet library and the ruined books and of how Mummy will be very disappointed with him when she comes back. Her disappointment is sometimes worse than Father's anger because it is rarely directed at him. He doesn't want that.

It's all her fault.

"You're fired."

She stares at him disbelievingly then begins to laugh. Sherlock stops squirming in his hold.

"Yeah, right." She pats his head fondly. "I'll take Sherlock now."

"No, you're fired." Mycroft glares at her. _Sherlock could have gotten hurt_. "You didn't do your job properly."

She opens her mouth to argue, to tell him that he's being silly and can he please just hand his little brother to her? But Mycroft speaks first. "If you go away now, I won't tell your boyfriend that you're cheating on him."

"Excuse me?"

Mycroft doesn't even bother giving her an answer. He goes to Sherlock's room and changes his clothes himself. The sitter doesn't follow them, and it's just as well that she didn't—he rarely makes vain threats.

"No!" Sherlock shouts when Mycroft holds up his trousers. "Don't want!"

"You're putting these on and that's final."

Sherlock dodges him then throws the bee/bear at Mycroft's face. Mycroft catches it and holds it gingerly with his thumb and forefinger. It's more than a little worse for wear. The left ear is torn, one beady eye hangs by a few threads, and the stuffing is peeking out from the seam on its belly. Mycroft has thought more than once to throw the thing away but it's the only way to bribe Sherlock into doing something he doesn't want to do.

As soon as he sees his favourite toy acting as hostage, Sherlock immediately stops screaming and sets down his next weapon (a box of crayons). "Put on your trousers or you won't get this," Mycroft threatens, holding the bear high. Sherlock looks at the bear then at the bookshelf in his room. Mycroft nods. "That's right. If you don't behave, I'm going to put this on the top shelf where you can't reach it."

"Mine!"

Mycroft walks towards the shelf, still holding the bear up. Sherlock begins to cry, this time for real. It's easy enough to differentiate Sherlock's fake crying from his real one. The real one has none of the harsh shrieking. It's disturbingly quiet and Mycroft wonders what Sherlock learning to control his sobbing at an early age means. Mycroft lowers the toy and moves to him. "Trousers?" he asks and Sherlock nods, still sniffling even when Mycroft has finished dressing him and has placed the bear in his arms.

The angelic act does not last long. Sherlock reaches up and pinches his arm before running out the room.

The house is much too quiet, and Mycroft, knowing just how bored Sherlock can be when there's no one to entertain him, grabs his hand and takes him outside. The only adult present is Jules, the gardener. He eyes them suspiciously, then warns Mycroft not to let Sherlock anywhere near the flowerbeds. "You heard that, Sherlock?" Mycroft says as he seats his brother next to him. "No more chasing bees."

Sherlock's only reply is to grab a stick and poke him between his ribs.

Thankfully, it is a Friday. He hears the Lestrades' car pull up the driveway, Greg's father greeting one of the staff cordially before he bids Greg goodbye. Mycroft braces himself for Luke Rochewell's teasing but relaxes once he sees that it's only Greg today. "Hello," he greets, grinning wildly as he wraps his arms around Mycroft's middle, squeezing slightly. Mycroft knows he is meant to squeeze back but he doesn't understand why this must be done so he just stands there and pats Greg's back a bit.

"Luke got into trouble," Mycroft says. It's not a question; it's a statement. Greg nods.

"He had to go to the dentist. He lost his teeth. A bully knocked them out."

Mycroft blinks, startled. He's never seen Greg or his cousin as the type to be bullied, but rather, he sees them as the bullies. Luke is obvious. There's a malicious glint in his eyes and he likes to taunt others. Greg is more subtle. A bystander, rather. He doesn't participate, but he doesn't help, either.

But then, Greg and Luke don't know about the other kids who make fun of him.

Appearances can be very deceiving.

Someone shoves him away from Greg. It's Sherlock, of course. It must be an Omega thing, Mycroft thinks, the one that makes Sherlock so possessive of Greg. He hopes that it is not a Sherlock thing because that would lead to several therapy sessions and possibly a white room with padded walls.

"Hello," Greg greets as he picks Sherlock up, staggering slightly when Sherlock wraps his limbs around him like a vice. "Loosen up, you're choking me."

"Mine," Sherlock mutters.

Greg just laughs and kisses his forehead. Mycroft finds himself staring at the two of them. There's a strange feeling in his chest. Heartburn, maybe, but that's impossible. He's only nine and they don't have a history of heart problems in their family.

It's gone before Mycroft can put a name to it.


	4. The Joy of Puberty by Matilda Neville

**Edit: Crap I am so so so sorry but at least I know that people are actually reading this. This is what happens when my finals is only two weeks away. Again, really, really sorry for posting the same thing twice. Thanks for the heads up.**

* * *

The synonym of puberty is awkward.

The Oxford Dictionary doesn't state this. None of the academic dictionaries that have ever been written has stated this, and yet Greg Lestrade thinks that they _should_ because it is the word that comes into his mind whenever someone even mentions puberty. Everyone at this stage is awkward. Pimples and growth spurts and hair sprouting in odd places, not to mention the scents. Greg wonders if this is God's punishment for people. He wonders at the capability of people to be attracted to each other at this stage because in his opinion, everyone looks horrible, even the more good-looking ones.

Puberty crawls into his life slowly, unlike with Luke and Mycroft, both of whom are suddenly a head taller than him, making Greg feel rather small and bug-like in their presence. It's nice, though, that he doesn't look as awkward as the others. His scent gets stronger and with that comes Luke and Mycroft's overprotectiveness. This, of course, leads to the two of them fighting even more than usual. It makes his parents even more annoying than usual, not to mention their newfound level of embarrassing as they now have the tendency to watch over him whenever Mycroft visits. Greg knows why and it's ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous because he's not going to do that. Mycroft seems like he isn't even capable of doing that. Doing anything beyond shaking Greg's hand makes him tense up already.

Greg hates his parents so much right now. It is normal for every child to feel hatred towards their parents at one point in their lives. Parents are strange creatures. They know things and every child has a tendency to out-know them at such things because—according to Luke—there is a rebellious bug in every teenager's brain that may or may not fall out, depending on whether or not your perception of your parents will change for the better. Greg thinks this is bull. Well, the bug part anyway. He loves them, true, but he also hates them because they have made it their life goal to embarrass him as much as possible. This is rather far-fetched, and he's aware of this. But he's also quite aware of the pain in his lower jaw and of the knowledge that everything will go downhill from here.

"Don't be silly, honey," his mother scolds. To his horror, she actually grabs his hands and tries to wrench them away from his mouth. "They look wonderful."

"I look stupid!" he yells through his fingers. If he can find a way to glue his hands to his mouth permanently, then maybe he can escape this whole fiasco. Then again, he wouldn't be able to eat, and he does get hungry easily.

But still, that's better than facing ridicule.

"No you don't. Look." She grabs him by the shoulder and forces him to look at himself in the rear view mirror. Greg looks at his reflection, horrified. His height makes him feel awkward already. Even if he doesn't look awkward he _feels_ it, like knowing you have an aneurism in your brain and you're just waiting for Death to make you keel over. The stupid railway attached to his teeth will surely kill him. Not to mention the nicknames Luke will come up with once he sees. And Mycroft. Oh crap Mycroft. He'll give Greg that smug you-look-ridiculous look that he gives Luke on a daily basis, the one that makes Greg feel like he has the IQ of a centipede compared to Mycroft.

"I look stupid," Greg repeats, confirming it. "I'm never getting out of this car. Ever."

"Oh, Greg, don't be so melodramatic. You'll only have them for a year, anyway. Your teeth aren't that bad."

"Then I shouldn't have gotten these in the first place!" he yells.

"Honey," she says and Greg immediately swallows the next stream of complaints threatening to come out of his mouth. He scowls but relaxes his body to show his compliancy. Nothing good comes out of arguing with his parents. If he shouts too much his mother will burst into tears and his father, well, his father won't like that. It's not like they whip him or anything whenever he acts out, but washing the car and cleaning the gutters aren't chores Greg likes to do.

"This doesn't mean I like them." He shuts his eyes. He's not vain, damn it, he's a guy. Being an Omega doesn't turn him into a pansy, no matter how much the other boys tell him it does. He won't even look in a mirror until he has to or until Luke's taped something to his back or until Mycroft tells him that Luke's taped something to his back. But he really, really did not want to go through with this. "I'll hate them forever."

"Give it time." She kisses the top of his head and Greg quickly looks to see if anyone has seen before remembering that the car windows are tinted. "I love you, be good, and don't let Luke get himself into trouble."

"Okay," he mutters as he opens the car door and steps out. He watches the car speed down the street before he wraps his scarf around his mouth and heads off to the school building.

* * *

Luke's reaction is quite Luke-ian, meaning he's a flurry of movement. Greg tenses. "What's that?" he asks as soon as he sees Greg, bounding up to him like a puppy on drugs. "Why are you covering your mouth? Why do you have a scarf? It's hot. Are you hiding candy in there? Give me some!"

Mycroft's reaction is to look at Greg, do this lip-twitch thing that tells Greg he's amused, then promptly tells Luke to keep quiet as he's attracting too much attention. "Clenching your jaw will only make it hurt more," Mycroft tells him as he unwinds the scarf and hands it to Luke. "Let me see."

Greg considers gluing his mouth shut but discards it as soon as he sees Mycroft's face. He hesitates for a moment before he opens his mouth, enough for the two of them to see the disaster that has happened to his teeth.

"You got braces? Shit, you look stupid!" Luke gapes. "Well, more than usual."

"Shut up!" Greg hits him with his bag but Luke dodges so he ends up hitting Mycroft on the chest instead. "Sorry, My. Why are you two together, anyway? You should be killing each other right now."

"I'm serving as a guide," Mycroft explains. Behind him, Luke rolls his eyes and makes a rude gesture at Mycroft which, of course, Mycroft ignores. "Since you two will go to school in separate buildings next year, you have to attend guidance counselling. There will be a speaker and after that, you'll watch a film—the same thing my class watched last year."

"Oh," Greg says. Right, he forgot that Mycroft won't be in the same building with them anymore. He looks past Mycroft, at the dark grey building where the older Alphas and Betas are. Across this, a short distance away, is the B building where the older Omegas and a few Betas go. Mycroft's absence doesn't bother Greg as he hardly ever even sees Mycroft as he's a year older than them. Separating from Luke, however, is a foreign concept that Greg just can't wrap his mind around. _Who'll make sure he doesn't get himself killed next year? Not Mycroft, that's for sure._

Luke scrunches up his face. "Why do we even need a guide?" he asks, his voice challenging. "We know where the theatre is. We can find it on our own."

"It's an…interesting film." Mycroft shifts his weight from one foot to the other, obviously nervous despite the neutral expression on his face. Greg thinks that it must be an interesting film to make Mycroft Holmes nervous. How it is interesting, Greg is not sure if he wants to find out, not when it can unnerve Mycroft like that. Finally, Mycroft clears his throat, fiddles with the cuff of his shirtsleeve, then says, "I'm going to check whether or not Sherlock's in class. You know how he is. You two stay put. Someone will be here to collect you, shortly."

Luke yells after him but Mycroft hurries on and doesn't look back. "Git," Luke growls. He tosses the scarf back at Greg then hefts his bag over his shoulders. "I'm not going to wait for some stupid guide. Let's go ahead and get the best seats."

"I think it's alphabetised."

"Screw that. I'm not sitting next to Gloria Rutherford again. Come on, Metal Mouth." He flashes Greg a mocking smile. Greg considers the weight of the punishment they'll get if they're caught. It won't be much, he thinks as he runs after his cousin.

The theatre is half-full of nervous twelve-year-olds, looking a lot like pigs being led into a slaughterhouse in Greg's opinion. But as nobody asks and Luke will only cause trouble if he shares this thought, he keeps it to himself. Instead, Greg forces Luke to duck as they make their way to the back of the room. "I smell gum," Luke whispers. He presses his nose into the dirty carpet flooring. "Yup. Watermelon."

"All I can smell is your butt." Greg pokes the bony arse in front of his face, urging Luke to crawl faster. "Quickly. If Bartleby sees us, we're dead."

"_I'm_ dead," Luke corrects. "He loves you since you're married to Mycroft and everything."

"I'm not married to Mycroft!" Greg hisses. Alright, he is. Sort of. Slightly. But that doesn't mean it's official. It's not permanent and—and—Marriage is just weird, alright? He's not even attracted to Mycroft and Mycroft doesn't like him in that way and Greg is certain that he never will because, well, because he's Mycroft. He doesn't do that. All he cares about are studying and Sherlock.

"He wants to murder me, you know? Bartleby, I mean," Luke says casually as he takes a seat in a darkened corner which Greg is sure houses the rumoured ghost of the main theatre. There's no such thing as ghosts, he thinks as takes a seat next to Luke. The only thing he has to fear is Luke's tendency to forgo subtlety and give their position away. Bartleby, their perfectionist troll of a headmaster, certainly won't let them get away with it. He hates children, Luke especially, though Greg is certain that if he somehow becomes a headmaster when he grows up, he'll hate children with Luke's attitude, as well.

"I know it, Greg," Luke continues, dropping his voice to a whisper as the noise in the room slowly gives way to silence, "even though he doesn't say it. He just looks at me like he wants to see me choking on my own spit or something. It's like that thing with the eye and the old man."

"I think you're talking about Poe's "Tell-tale Heart"," Greg says. "That was Sherlock's bedtime story when he was a baby."

"Crazy family," yawns Luke. He throws his arms over his head and stretches, his back arching until his arse is at least an inch off the leather seat. "Crazy, crazy family. Telling creepy stories to little kids. That's not normal."

_As if you would know the definition of normal._ "Eating chewed gum off the floor is normal, then?"

"That was one time."

"It wasn't your gum," Greg reasons but Luke's no longer listening. He's already got his eyes on the stage which has been lit at some point during their mindless conversation and has, at some point, welcomed a skinny Chinese woman wearing the largest eyeglasses Greg has ever seen. "Buzz, buzz," Luke whispers. Greg quickly pinches one of his ears between his thumb and forefinger, smiling to himself when he feels Luke relax in the chair beside his. It's an old trick Naomi taught him, something he's learned calms most Alphas down. He's never tried it on Mycroft, though, and Greg's not sure if it will even work on him.

"Good morning, children," the woman says shakily, the microphone distorting her voice so that it sounds tinny and slightly alien-like. This will be boring, Greg thinks. He puts his feet over the back of the chair in front of his, keeping it there when he receives no complaint from the person in front. Luke slumps in his seat, pulls off his sentinel ring, and pops it in his mouth.

"Gross," Greg remarks. "You've got no breeding whatsoever."

Luke traps the ring between his teeth and makes a face at him.

"I'm Dr. Chung," the woman continues in the same tiny voice, " and I'm here to talk about the wonders of P-U-B-E-R-T-Y. Say it with me now, _puberty_."

Luke spits the ring in his palm and sits up so fast Greg fears he may have snapped his spinal cord. "Wait. What did she say?" he asks as an uncomfortable murmuring breaks over the audience.

"I think this is what Mycroft means by 'interesting'," Greg whispers as the lights go out. For a moment they're flooded in darkness. But time passes and slowly, slowly, a large square of light appears in front of the room. The projector first shows a blank screen but letters drop until they form the words that Greg is certain will haunt everyone's dreams tonight.

"'The Joy of Puberty' by Matilda Neville," Dr. Chung squeaks in a cheerful voice. "Chapter One…"

* * *

It's not that bad. It's not good either, but there are parts that they can laugh at, like the wet dreams and mammary glands and hormones and things like that. Some jokes are started, and of course, Greg's name is mentioned several times when they get to the topic of pre-bonds. He slumps further down his seat when he hears Dr. Chung talking about it, tuning her out immediately once she mentions 'falling in love' because that's not something he wants to think about now. Or ever, possibly. Next to him, Luke makes vomiting noises but turns quiet when Chapter 8 is finished and a new slide appears.

"Understanding Birth," Dr. Chung reads, still in that cheerful voice that makes Greg think of the witch who tried to eat Hansel and Gretel. He closes his eyes and is about to drift off to sleep, when all of a sudden, Luke grabs his hand in a harsh grip, startling him awake.

He deeply regrets it.

There's screaming from a few of them but mostly there's just this awestruck silence as they watch the baby slowly slide out from between the Omega's legs. There's blood and screaming and what looks to be a miniature demon threatening to tear their eardrums as the doctor on screen pats its back. Greg's stomach churns. _I came out like that. Is that supposed to happen? That's not normal, that's not, it just can't be normal. It looks like 'Invasion of the Body Snatchers'. I don't want that to happen to me!_ He clamps a hand over his mouth and forces himself to think of something else, something nice, something that will keep the bile from spilling out of his throat.

"Oh god…" Luke moans miserably. Greg sneaks a glance at him and sees that he's a bit green. His eyes widen at Greg. _Let's make a run for it!_

Greg swallows. Screw Bartleby, he thinks. He grabs Luke and together, they run out through the fire exit.

"WHAT WAS THAT?" Luke yells, his eyes looking like they're about to pop from his head. He points an accusing finger at the direction of the theatre. "That was not—that was sick! That was immoral! I'm not going to sleep for weeks because of that!"

"Sick?" Greg shrieks. He can't help it. He knows he's acting ridiculous but that was the most terrifying thing he's ever seen. He knows about birth, alright. He knows about blood and pain but he's never seen it. His heart is racing and there's cold sweat sliding down his face. He's in hysterics and Luke knows it and he knows it but damn it, there is absolutely no way to get rid of it quickly. "You're an Alpha! You're never going to have to—to do _that!_"

Luke's mouth opens. He closes it then grabs Greg by the shoulders and shakes him firmly. "Don't get pregnant, Greg," he tells him, gripping him even harder to emphasize the weight of their conversation. "Ever. Don't even touch Mycroft or—or—You are not going to go through that!"

"I'm only twelve! Don't tell me things like that!"

"So you want to do that then?"

"NO!"

"And you won't. You never have to, understand? I'll kill Mycroft before he can even think about it." He wraps his arms around Greg and squeezes hard. "You're squishy," he says, signalling the end to his momentary seriousness. His arms feel weightless when Luke finally releases him. "That won't end for another two hours. We should go somewhere."

"Food?" Greg asks. Another thing about this whole puberty thing is the constant hunger pangs. It's either hormones or it's because Luke keeps stealing his lunch. It's a combination of the two, he thinks.

Luke rubs his chin thoughtfully. "Mycroft's still _in_ there, right?" he says after a moment of looking like he was trying to remove the skin from the lower half of his face. "Hmm...You know what I want? I'd loooove some ice cream right now."

Greg stuffs his hands in his pockets before realising that he left his bag in the theatre. "Damn," he murmurs. "Got any money on you?"

"Greg," Luke says, looking as if Greg has just insulted his mother, his father, and his future children. "When have I ever been allowed to handle money?"

Greg blinks and Luke smiles slowly, that annoying smile that says _well, you're finally catching up with me!_ Greg hates that smile. It's the smile that tells him he'll get into a lot of trouble if he does what Luke wants. However, it seems that he's fallen a bit in love with getting into trouble. That's the only explanation for why he hardly ever resists when that smile appears.

Greg runs his tongue over the sharp metal brackets stuck to his teeth, thinking hard. Pros: 1) They never get caught and there's free ice cream. 2) It will keep Luke entertained. Cons: 1) Mycroft will kill them.

"Fine," Greg says and Luke whoops in delight.

* * *

"You look stupid. Your mouth, especially." Sherlock's uniform is too big for him. Greg takes note of a missing button and what looks to be a child's handprint made with neon blue paint set between his shoulder blades. There's a leaf stuck to his hair and his nose is nipped red with cold. He sniffs and rubs the snot away with the back of his hand. It should be disgusting. It is disgusting, actually, but it doesn't look like it is because Sherlock, despite the dirty clothes and his dirty face, still looks every bit like an angelic child. Something Greg knows all too well that he's not in terms of personality. "Mycroft won't like this. He'll get mad at you."

"You like making your brother angry," Luke reminds him, saving Greg from making a fool of himself in front of a six-year-old. "Think of it as an adventure. Besides, it's not like this is the first time we're going to do this. You lot are expected to be napping or shitting your pants, anyway." He lifts his arms, reaching for Sherlock but Sherlock doesn't budge.

"He doesn't like you, remember?" Greg whispers to Luke. To make a point, he mirrors Luke's move. Sherlock doesn't even hesitate. With alarming dexterity for such a small thing, he slides off the window sill and falls into Greg's arms. Greg huffs a bit under his weight but manages to keep his balance.

"You smell."

"Give me a break—your building's a lot farther than ours."

"What's in this for me?" Sherlock asks once Greg has set him down.

"Ice cream," Greg starts to say before he remembers that Sherlock's going to be the one doing all the work. He turns to Luke but only gets a shrug in response. _Don't look at me_, he seems to be saying, _he doesn't like me and I don't like him much, either._

Greg scratches the side of his nose. _Sneak in the science lab?_

Luke's raises his eyebrows comically. _Easy._

"A snake floating in formaldehyde," Greg tells him, saying it quickly in case sanity catches him. Damn, Mycroft really will murder him. And all for some ice cream. God, he should really think about where his priorities lie. "How about that?"

"Done." Sherlock walks ahead then stops and turns back to him. "Carry me."

"You're heavy."

"I'm not. I'll tell on you." He lifts his arms once more. "I'm _tired_," he adds with a whine that tells Greg his only choice is to do it if he doesn't want Sherlock to throw a tantrum. He scowls at Luke before he kneels and lets Sherlock clamber onto his back. Greg smells sweat and honey and the still slightly unfamiliar scent of John on Sherlock. It's only been three weeks since Sherlock's pre-bond with nine-year-old John Watson, and, well, it's something they don't talk about in Sherlock's presence. He hates the idea of having a partner. What's even more annoying for him is that Mycroft is his sentinel and has the ring to prove it. But really, Greg thinks, whom did Sherlock expect?

Then again, given the choice, he definitely would not have picked Luke for his sentinel.

"You have John to do that for you," Luke comments after a quick glance at the two of them. At the very mention of John, Sherlock snarls and tightens his grip on Greg, nearly choking him. He staggers a bit under Sherlock's weight.

"Don't," he hisses at Luke.

"But he does. Well, during the summer anyway. It's an advantage, you know," Luke says before Sherlock can protest. "Greg hardly ever gets into trouble thanks to Mycroft's being a teacher's pet. You can use John to your advantage. Experiment on him, maybe."

"Idiot," Greg snaps. He frees one hand to slap the back of Luke's head. "Don't tell him things like that!"

"Says the boy who used Mycroft's name to get out of detention," Luke says cheerily. He runs ahead then, very much like a squirrel, clambers up the chain link fence surrounding the playground of primary school building. He jumps off the other side then waits for Sherlock to follow him up.

"It's not my fault," Greg answers once Sherlock has made it to the other side. It's an easy climb, especially since they've been doing this for ages. "I didn't do it intentionally. I merely mentioned that I needed to go outside to tell Mycroft not to wait for me anymore because I had detention and couldn't go with his family to this stupid dinner."

"It _was_ stupid," Sherlock agrees.

"Shush. Anyway, I'm not a user."

"You're using me to get free ice cream," Sherlock reminds them. Unfortunately for Greg, he resumes his former position on Greg's back.

"That's different."

"How?"

For a moment Luke struggles to find an answer. And for a moment, he nearly has it. A light sparks in his eyes, an oh-I-have-it! smile appears on his face. But it dies two seconds later and he merely turns to Greg, defeated, and says, "Race you to the shop."

"I have a six-year-old to carry."

"We can take turns."

Sherlock scowls at Luke and clings to Greg. "No."

"Ah well…" Luke flashes them a mocking grin. "C'est la guerre!" he yells then tears off. Greg curses inwardly, adjusts his hold on Sherlock, before he goes after him.

* * *

To be honest, Sherlock scares Greg sometimes. It's not the tantrums and the intelligence that make him feel uncomfortable when he's around Sherlock for too long. It's his ability to manipulate people so easily. Greg is not sure if he's learned this from someone or if it's inborn. He recalls several incidents of Mycroft asking people—older, respectable people—to do things for him when Sherlock was still a baby. And they wouldn't hesitate to do whatever it was Mycroft asked of them. It must be a Holmes thing, though Greg has noticed that Mycroft and Sherlock use this…this _thing_ differently.

With Mycroft, it's all about being posh. It's about appearing older than your years and it's about looking like nothing that will come your way will surprise you. Mycroft puts on this authoritative tone in his voice that just makes people _listen_ to him. It's a talent, one that Greg can never hope to copy.

With Sherlock, it's sweetness. It helps that he looks every bit an innocent child. Sherlock will only have to smile at someone and everyone will flock to him and give him what he wants. The smile is dangerous enough, but the crocodile tears are deadly. The moment you look at Sherlock while he does his fake crying, you've already lost the battle. He has this way of making it look like he has the world on his shoulders when he cries. What disturbs Greg the most about it is, he's not sure _how_ Sherlock learned to cry like that.

He doesn't really want to find out.

"Genius," Luke praises when Sherlock finally walks out, balancing three huge ice cream cones in his hands. "I should bring you a live snake."

Greg pinches Luke's side quickly. There's no way he's going to look for a living, breathing snake just to reward Sherlock for manipulating the ice cream vendor. The dead one's going to be hard to get already.

"I want my snake," Sherlock responds. His ice cream is running down his fingers but Sherlock doesn't seem to care. "By tomorrow."

Luke huffs. "Can't we negotiate? It's not that easy, you know. A later date or—"

"No." Sherlock licks his ice cream, wrinkles his nose, then, to Greg's amazement, throws it in the nearest bin.

"You should have said you didn't want any." Greg hands his cone to Luke in order to dig his hands in his pockets and search for the wad of tissues he'd stuffed there earlier. Sherlock luckily doesn't argue when Greg begins to clean his fingers. "We wouldn't have forced you to go with us."

"I find that hard to believe," Sherlock replies. "Where would you have gone?"

Greg turns to Luke for an answer. Wrong decision. Luke raises his finger and points it at a place Greg is positive, he should never, ever let Sherlock go to.

Sherlock eyes the building critically. Then, he nods and looks at Greg. "I want to go."

* * *

Mycroft greets them with a small frown on his face. "I'm not responsible for your studies, but I am responsible for my brother's," he says, his voice flat, letting Greg know that Mycroft is truly, truly angry with them. He bites his lower lip and holds Sherlock closer to him, as if he can use him as a shield from Mycroft's fury. No such luck, Greg thinks when he meets Mycroft's eyes.

"You were gone the whole day. Luckily, Sherlock's teacher was only a substitute who didn't know who her students were." He gently takes Sherlock from him. The kid stirs but doesn't wake and even nuzzles closer to Mycroft. It leaves Greg feeling empty and exposed. He shoves his hands in his pockets and averts his gaze. Beside him, Luke is completely silent and Greg absolutely hates him for it.

"Was it worth it?"

"Yup," Luke blurts out before Greg can say 'no'. Then again, saying 'no' would be lying and Mycroft would be able to tell.

Mycroft stares at him coldly. "You're going to get an infection."

"Liar," Luke mumbles. He rubs his ear, wincing slightly when he puts too much pressure. Mycroft is right. He will get an infection. The skin around the silver hoop is alarmingly red compared to the rest of the skin of his ear.

Greg pushes Luke away. "Go," he says, "go and do something for a while. Put something on that."

Luke pouts but he understands and obeys without further complaint. As soon as he's out of earshot, Greg quickly says, "I'm sorry. I really, really am sorry. It's just—I mean, it was only supposed to be ice cream since I got hungry and Luke got hungry and we had no money so we needed Sherlock. And I, uh, made the mistake of asking Luke where to go and Sherlock wanted to see ear piercings and Luke's always wanted one. So we convinced Sherlock to do his creepy manipulating people thing so Luke could get it. And—and we kind of forgot about the time and Sherlock fell asleep but—but—it was alright since we didn't—"

"Stop."

Greg stops.

"You sound ridiculous when you're nervous." Mycroft shifts his hold on Sherlock. He eyes Greg strangely. "Do I truly frighten you that much?"

Greg flushes. "You don't frighten me."

"I make you nervous."

"Yes," Greg admits. There's no shame in admitting it because older people get nervous around Mycroft so it's perfectly acceptable for him to act like he's about to step foot off a ten-storey building. "Sometimes. When you're doing the whole Big Brother thing. It's kind of creepy. But it's you so…er, I don't know. I'm not doing a very good job in getting out of trouble."

To Greg's surprise, Mycroft actually smiles at him. It's a small smile but it's a smile nonetheless and Greg finds himself grinning back. Mycroft's eyes drop to his mouth. "They're not stupid," he says. "They make you look interesting."

"Is that a euphemism for ugly?" Greg jokes.

"If you think it then yes, I suppose. But I assure you, they really don't look stupid."

"Am I out of trouble?" Greg asks as he walks after him. Luke's standing near the gate, waiting for them both with his and Greg's bags slung over one shoulder.

"No," Mycroft tells him.

It sounds like a lie.


	5. Look Closer

"Don't."

His face is red and he's squinting, blinking hard. Mycroft estimates that in five seconds, Luke will burst into tears, the way he always does when he's furious and upset. It shouldn't be mistaken as a sign of weakness. One look at his clenched fists tells Mycroft that if he's not careful, Luke won't hesitate to punch him. _Hard._

Mycroft's eyes drop to the wet tiles. One of Luke's textbooks has flown out of his bag and is currently lying in the middle of the growing puddle. He doesn't look at Luke as he picks it up and pries it open. Soaked beyond repair but it's not important, judging from the smoothness and stiffness of the spine. He can always borrow from Greg, anyway.

"If it makes you feel any better," he says, "they did that to me as well. They do that to everyone. It's a mindless form of tradition. Better if you don't fight back, really."

"At least the janitor just finished up here, eh?" Luke retorts cheerlessly. He steps past Mycroft, turns on the tap, and plunges his already-drenched head under the water. Mycroft studies his back, sees him shaking even harder, and quickly deduces that the five seconds have gone by. He stuffs the textbook inside Luke's bag but he doesn't pick it up from the floor, knowing just how much Luke will hate the gesture. He's easy to read, Luke. He doesn't want pity, isn't used to getting it, and he definitely won't appreciate it if it comes from Mycroft. To be frank, Mycroft would leave him alone but Greg asked him to look out for him.

"You know how he is," Greg said. "He can't tell his arse from his head." He placed a hand on Mycroft's arm, tightening his grip as if he was making sure Mycroft was there, listening. "Please? Will you do this for me?" And Mycroft didn't—couldn't—say no to him.

He's finding it harder and harder to say no to Greg. Which isn't a good thing because Greg is almost as bad as Luke when left to his own devices. But at least they're separate now which means the teachers can finally relax.

Which means more work for Mycroft.

The tap stops running. The only noise in the room is Luke's heavy breathing, still uneven but calmer now, meaning he's finally stopped crying. Mycroft takes it as a sign to look. His eyes meet Luke's through the mirror. "If you tell Greg—" he starts.

"I won't. But I do mean it—do not fight back. You'll only make it worse for yourself."

Luke stares at him challengingly. Finally, he moves away from the sink, snatches his bag, then walks out of the room, slamming the door shut as he goes. Mycroft sighs. Eight hours of their first day back and Luke's already landed himself into trouble. Really, Greg's patience is impeccable.

* * *

Greg's smile drops when he takes note of the empty space at Mycroft's side where Luke should be. His fingers curl around the chain-link fence as he stands on his toes to look over Mycroft's shoulder. "He's not dead, is he?" Greg jokes, an underlying trace of worry in his voice.

"Sulking," Mycroft answers. Well, technically he's not telling Greg the details so it's not exactly breaking his promise to Luke. Greg will find out anyway because as much as Luke hates being picked on, he craves the attention, and what happened will certainly be a story the two of them will laugh at when they're older. "I take it you're doing well."

Greg shrugs. "It's alright. A bit boring, though."

Mycroft scans him quickly. Not lying, he thinks, relieved. Greg raises an eyebrow at him, smiling slightly so that Mycroft can only see a glimpse of his braces. "Worried?" he teases. It makes Mycroft pause. He's worried, alright, but you don't admit to people that you're worried about them because they'll only do things to make you worry more. He thinks of a reply.

"It's my job," he says, settling for a fact.

Greg's brows furrow and something, something that Mycroft doesn't like, passes over his face. "Right," he mutters, sounding hollow.

"Greg?"

"Hmm? Oh, it's nothing, just tired, you know?" He laughs but it still sounds wrong. "Been playing all night. Practicing, I mean, I still can't play shit." He lifts up his hand to show Mycroft the broken skin around his fingers, waggles his fingers playfully. "Getting better, though."

Mycroft looks at the damaged skin and inevitably thinks of Sherlock. "I'd like to see that. Hear you play, I mean," he says doubtfully, remembering the last time Greg made him listen to his records. Greg chuckles at what he sees on his face.

"Not going to force you to, don't worry." He stands there awkwardly for a moment, keeping his head bowed so that Mycroft can't read his face. He should be easy to read since he's just a less volatile version of Luke but Mycroft finds that there are layers to Greg Lestrade that he hasn't seen yet. _What is it this time?_ But they don't ask questions. He's sure he'll find out sooner or later. He may not be easy to read sometimes but Greg's not a big keeper of secrets, either.

He straightens himself, smiles again, then says, "Listen, I have to go. Just, um, thanks, I guess. For looking out for him." The smile falters. "You know, even though it's not your job."

* * *

"Don't."

Mycroft looks away for a moment but it's hard, so he gives up on politeness and just stares. Luke can't see him from his position but he tenses and growls, "Laugh and I'll kill you."

"I'm not going to laugh," Mycroft answers because he's not stupid, he's not going to laugh at this. "But I did warn you not to fight back."

"Fuck your warnings," Luke mutters vehemently. Mycroft has to admire his determination to seem intimidating. It's not an easy thing to do, especially when you're facing the wall with the tip of your nose pressed against a small, badly-drawn x. He turns his head, notices the empty desk, then steps back, enough for Mycroft to see his face. His left eye is already starting to swell shut and there's dried blood on his top lip but he's grinning like a wolf. "You should have seen what I did to the others guys. Idiots. They can't mess with me."

"This isn't going to stop," Mycroft tells him.

"Did I say that I want it to?"

"Greg doesn't want you fighting."

Luke groans. "He's not my keeper. I'm his keeper. Technically, anyway."

"You don't do a very good job."

And that's it. Luke's expression darkens. "You would know all about jobs, wouldn't you, Mycroft?" he says goadingly. Mycroft searches his expression. This obviously has something to do with Greg, but Luke narrows his eyes at him and Mycroft immediately stops. Luke's not going to tell him now. He will, probably. He's got a big mouth and despite his loyalty to Greg, he'll eventually say what it is. Not now, though.

They hear footsteps. Luke freezes. "You ought to get back to your punishment," Mycroft tells him. He's about to step out but Luke calls his name, stopping him at the threshold.

"I hate you," Luke says, "But that's not a big secret, huh? I don't know why, but—Look, just remember what I told you, alright? Then maybe I can get over the fact that you're a posh git."

"You've said a lot of things to me, none of them good."

"Yeah, well, the ones with substance. Review them."

* * *

"It's a simple enough tune, boy, so stop making a racket and learn the piece properly!" Father snaps, slamming his glass on the table forcefully. For a moment, Mycroft fears that he may have broken it, but when Father relinquishes his hold, he sees that it's perfectly fine.

Sherlock's standing in the middle of the room, staring at his feet and looking so unsure of himself that Mycroft has to swallow the wince threatening to escape from his mouth. He's done nothing this time, has even made the effort to be good for once, but Father's been stuck in one of his black moods for weeks. Mycroft thinks of the little bottle of pills stashed in their medicine cabinet. The last time he looked, there were six. He thinks—knows rather—that there will still be six when he checks it again.

Father clicks his tongue disapprovingly, staring Sherlock down. Mycroft desperately wants to leap out of his chair and hold Sherlock close, shield him from Father's gaze. He doesn't. It will be worse if he interferes.

"I want that perfect by tomorrow night, understand?" When Sherlock doesn't reply, Father gets up and grabs his chin, forcing him to look at him. "Understand, Sherlock?" he grits out.

For a second, defiance flashes in Sherlock's eyes but it fades soon enough. He mutters a shaky yes. Father lets him go. As soon as he's out the door, Sherlock hurls the bow at the floor, the violin almost following suit if not for Mycroft's interference. He gently pries the instrument out of Sherlock's hands and lays it on the table before going back to Sherlock. "Hush, don't cry," he says comfortingly. "You were good."

Mycroft feels guilty that he secretly cherishes these moments because this is one of the few times when Sherlock acts his age. It's not good, definitely isn't very big-brother like, but Sherlock's usually so abrasive. It's nice, from time to time, to feel that Sherlock still needs him. Still, this doesn't mean Mycroft wants Sherlock to suffer. It's heart breaking to see him like this. Sherlock's covering his face, trying to hide his tears, but he doesn't resist when Mycroft wraps his arms around him. "You have to understand, Sherlock," Mycroft whispers, still in the same soothing tone. He's shaking like a leaf against Mycroft, his wet face pressed against the crook of his neck. "Father is sick, remember? Sometimes he can't control himself. You have to be patient with him and you have to learn not to fight back."

Sherlock's mumbling something but his speech is too garbled for Mycroft to make out anything. It's probably nonsense anyway. "Stop crying, you'll make yourself ill," Mycroft tries but Sherlock refuses to calm down. "Sherlock, calm yourself, alright? I'll take you to your room."

Sherlock mumbles something again. Two words. "What?" Mycroft asks. "What do you want?"

Sherlock sniffs. "Want Greg," he repeats.

"No."

He's not even thinking about it but he finds himself saying no, anyway. He won't deny Sherlock anything that can't harm him, especially things that will help him, but he can't give Sherlock this. Mycroft knows Greg's presence will calm Sherlock. If Mummy were here…But she's not. They seldom stay in the same place for a long period of time, his mother and father.

He can't invite Greg here now, not when Father's around, acting like this, and not when Sherlock's in hysterics. "No, Sherlock," he says again, hating it, hating himself when disappointment flashes in Sherlock's face.

Coward. But Sherlock doesn't say it even though Mycroft can tell that he wants to. The moment is gone and Sherlock slumps his shoulders, defeated.

He should have said it.

* * *

"Don't."

He doesn't say it out loud so Greg asks anyway. "Something wrong?" He's looking at Mycroft carefully. Mycroft's not looking at him but he can see him staring at him through his peripheral vision, can feel Greg's eyes boring into him.

"It's just," Greg continues, "you've been awfully quiet since I got here." He pulls off his scarf and lays it on the table. His fingers are bandaged. He's proud about them, though, wouldn't be wearing those fingerless gloves if he wasn't. Been playing all night, too much. One of his hands lifts from the table to rest on Mycroft's shoulder. Mycroft sniffs, smelling the faint traces of blood and iodine from his hand.

"Stop reading me," Greg tells him. "I asked you a question."

Mycroft snaps back to the present. "Nothing's wrong," he lies, moving away so that the table's between them. "Would you like a drink?"

"Coffee," Greg says automatically, still staring at him.

"You shouldn't be drinking that."

Greg's answer is a shrug. Don't, Mycroft thinks, but Greg's not stupid. He's already abandoned his post and is now moving about, looking at the kitchen as if he's trying to find something important. Mycroft turns on the coffee maker, keeping his back to Greg.

"Where's Sherlock?"

"In his bedroom. He's ill."

Greg's stopped walking. "Can I see him?"

"You don't want to catch what he has."

"I don't get sick easily."

"He shouldn't be disturbed."

"I can help make him better. Biology and all that crap."

"He's asleep."

"Where are your parents, by the way? I haven't seen them since Tuesday."

"Mummy's in France. Father's working."

The first is the truth. The second is a lie. Mycroft pours the coffee in a mug, nearly spilling it when he recalls last night's conversation. He'd checked and he was right. Father wasn't taking his medication. As soon as everyone was asleep he called his uncle. Most likely, Father is in the hospital right now with his brother heightening his dosage of lithium tablets. Mycroft wonders what his uncle thinks about their father. If he's afraid of him or if he's afraid _for_ him.

Mycroft wonders if he even thinks of him as someone other than a patient.

A bit of coffee slops from the mug and hits the toe of Mycroft's shoe. Greg notices the slip and doesn't let go of it. "Who's looking after you?" he asks cautiously.

"Greg," Mycroft says, exasperated. He can feel a headache forming. "Leave it."

Greg clamps his mouth shut. When Mycroft turns to face him, Greg has his arms folded across his chest, his expression guarded. Mycroft hands him the mug unceremoniously. "You should tell the truth for once," Greg mutters and somehow Mycroft just loses it.

"You should stop interfering with my life," he snaps and it's so childish that Mycroft feels like he's turned into Sherlock because it's something only his brother would say. It's childish and stupid but it must hurt Greg because his eyes widen. Mycroft doesn't regret things because he always thinks twice before doing something, but he regrets this now.

"Greg," he starts but he stops, stuck, unsure of what to say. He did mean it but at the same time he doesn't and it's so confusing that all he can do is stand there and stare at Greg. He should say sorry but he can't bring himself to do so.

"Sorry," Greg says. It doesn't sound like he's apologising. He's glaring at the mug in his hands instead of glaring at Mycroft and somehow, that seems worse. "I _thought_ we were friends. Stupid of me to make that mistake."

Mycroft feels uncomfortable. He doesn't quite know what to do and it's so foreign a feeling that he has to think for a long time before he can respond. "We are," he says, settling for something simple, for something true. But Greg's face tells him he isn't buying it.

Greg sets the mug down, stares at him. "You're a really good liar, Mycroft."

* * *

Luke punches him.

Luke has punched him before. It's ingrained in his very being, to punch things to enjoy himself, to defend himself, and just for the sake of punching something. But he's never punched Mycroft while truly meaning it so it's never hurt until now.

He's not only punching. He's gone wild, has knocked Mycroft off his feet and is in the process of strangling him. Thankfully, Mycroft's not weak. He doesn't fight back but he manages to roll them so that Luke's under him, his arms pinned behind his back. "What?" Mycroft gasps, "is the matter with you?"

Luke struggles like a wild animal, twisting his head to bite Mycroft's hand. Mycroft shifts his hold and slams Luke's head down, applying pressure until Luke gets the message and slowly, slowly calms down. The sound of people laughing distracts Mycroft, long enough for Luke to push him off. They wait but no one enters the classroom.

Luke's breathing heavily, still glaring at Mycroft. He has blood on his hands but it's not his. Mycroft touches his split lip gingerly. His mouth is flooded with the taste of blood but Luke wasn't able knock a tooth loose. The inside of his cheek, however, needs to be checked.

"I warned you, didn't I?" Luke growls. He doesn't make a move to tackle Mycroft. Must be tired, Mycroft thinks. One look at him and Mycroft already knows that he's not the first person Luke's fought with today. "I told you that if you hurt Greg, I'll fucking kill you."

"I'm still alive."

"Want me to correct my mistake?" Luke counters. He tries to stand up and fails, dropping to his arse hard.

"You don't have the energy for that."

"Tomorrow, then," Luke mumbles. He lies back, arms and legs spread like he's about to make a snow angel. Mycroft pokes his tongue at the cut in his cheek, wincing when pain shoots through his face. It makes him cough and spit out blood. Luke stares at him lazily, seemingly satisfied.

"Happy?"

"Quite." He looks at the ceiling and heaves a great sigh. "He fancies you, you know?"

Mycroft stares at him disbelievingly.

"Doesn't say it but I can tell. It just started this month, I think. I don't think he realises either. The way he looks at you. Jesus, it's disgusting." Luke rolls to his side so that he's facing Mycroft. "And as much as the idea gives me the creeps, he's my cousin. Whatever makes him happy, I guess."

"Um," Mycroft says. It is odd. He knows that they're supposed to be together, him and Greg, but he also knows that not all bonds have to have a romantic component to them. He sees it more as a duty. Emotions, love, can be horribly distracting. "I think…I think I would know."

"You've been ignoring it." Luke sits up. "Holmes, think about it. Why do you think he's acting all weird? And don't say puberty because I've just been to another sex ed class today and let me tell you, I am seriously sick of that word."

Mycroft doesn't answer. Silence is a good response. "I just want you to say sorry, alright?" Luke says as he gets up. "He's been sulking all day and it doesn't suit him."

"I—Thank you. For telling me."

Luke cocks his head to one side, studying him. "You're still a posh git," he says but there's no venom to his words, and for a moment, just for a moment, he actually smiles at Mycroft sincerely.

* * *

"Don't."

Greg's eyes are closed. Mycroft steps back and Greg opens his eyes. "Don't," he says again and Mycroft removes his hands from Greg's shoulders.

"You could just say sorry," Greg tells him. "You shouldn't kiss me."

"Why not? It's what you want."

Greg flushes but he doesn't avert his gaze. "It's not what _you_ want," he says. Mycroft's silence confirms it, and while there's disappointment in Greg's face, there's also acceptance. "I don't know what Luke's been telling you, but—not if you don't want it. I'm not a job, My."

"I'm terribly sorry." _I'm sorry for telling you that, I'm sorry for giving you the wrong impression, I'm sorry for not liking you back._ He doesn't say these things out loud. Greg gets it.

"It's just a stupid crush," Greg mutters. "It will go away, eventually." Greg gives him a crooked smile. Mycroft does like him, but in a brotherly way. Not in that way, though. He stares at Greg's face and thinks that while it will be horribly inconvenient, it won't be bad. It's not impossible to like Greg back.

"Okay."

"I just wish you'd tell me things." Greg looks away. He scratches the back of his neck, a habit of his when he's nervous. "I don't keep secrets from you and I don't like it. When you lie to me."

Mycroft sighs. It will be hard, but he can't keep things from Greg forever.

He sets his hands on Greg's shoulders, forces him to look at him. He takes a deep breath, waits. No going back once he says it. But Greg's looking at him with a slightly hopeful expression and he really doesn't want to lose Greg because of this.

He can't force himself to like him back like that. But he can give him this.

"What do you want to know?"

* * *

**A/N: Mycroft's voice is always serious compared to Luke's and Greg's. I mean, he's Mycroft. I can't imagine him any other way.**


	6. The Likely Lads

**Warnings: Underage drinking/smoking and a whole lot of swearing.**

* * *

He shouldn't like Mycroft because Mycroft is so different from them. He's not like Luke who likes to get into trouble and he's not like Chuck who likes to play music so loud it threatens to give them permanent ear damage. He's too controlled, too posh, and really, he's the kind of person Greg and his friends make fun of because Mycroft's kind, they're almost nonhuman. He's one of those people the teachers love, the ones who actually want to make you feel comfortable school, the ones who greet you with the same brochure-worthy smile on your first day, and the ones who get bullied all the time.

Greg knows that he should like people like Cassie Mayhew who's fond of riling up their teachers. People like Anya Hinson and Paul Lucca who have bad reps in school, who earned their bad reputations. He should like people like Johnny Rotten, like Joey Ramone.

But what _should_ happen doesn't.

It just happens. One moment Mycroft's his weird, omniscient-old self and the next, well, when he puts his hand on Greg's shoulder to be exact, Greg gets this weird feeling that makes him extra self-conscious and very, very aware of Mycroft's hand on his shoulder and Mycroft's proximity to him and—Okay, it just makes him very aware of Mycroft, alright? It also makes him very aware of the spots on his face and Mycroft's spots and really, really, people shouldn't think about spots. Who the fuck invented puberty anyway?

There's a growl in his ear, a warning, but Greg responds too late and is tackled to the ground. "OUCH!" He kicks his perpetrator, his foot landing squarely on Chuck's groin. "That fucking hurt, you git!"

"It's—rugby—" Chuck gasps, rolling away from Greg, his hands pressed to the front of his shorts. "Pay—attention!"

Luke runs up to them, the ball in his hand and looking far too muddy for his own good. "No more babies for you!" he yells cheerfully at Chuck and, to Greg's amusement, throws the ball down and throws himself at their friend. Greg tries to get up before he gets caught in the fray but Chuck holds him tightly. Somehow he ends up underneath the two of them.

"Can't breathe!"

"You deserve it." Chuck's arse is on his face, smelling of mud and grass and sweat and, well, arse, Greg supposes.

"I'm serious!" Greg says. He squirms until they finally roll off him. "Yuck." He wipes his face with the hem of his shirt. "You two are disgusting."

"Serves you right for possibly destroying my manhood. See." Chuck slides his thumbs in the waistband of his shorts and yanks them down to his knees, his pants following. They're in the field and it's already dark out but people can still see. Then again, modesty doesn't really apply to them.

Luke hoots upon seeing the damage. That will bruise in the morning, Greg thinks. "Sorry," he says, though he doesn't really mean it. "You caught me off-guard."

Luke eyes him sharply. He raises an eyebrow. _Thinking about him again?_

Greg rolls his eyes at him, feeling himself blush. _Shut up._

Chuck pulls his shorts back up and scowls at the two of them. "Can you two not do that whole telepathy thing when I'm here? It makes me feel left out."

"We could teach you," Luke says. "It's easy."

"As if that will _work_."

It won't. They've done it before, tried to teach someone to catch up with them, but all attempts failed. It would be easier if they were twins so they won't have to explain it, but they're not, at least, not when it comes to biology. They're just really close; they look out for each other all the time. It's the reason why they're each other's best friends. It's not like they're antisocial. They have a respectable number of friends thanks to the pranks they pull, but when it comes to the other things, things that involve talking seriously, they're all they've got.

Chuck huffs but he doesn't say anything else. That's what Greg likes about Chuck. The others, they get furious when they're left out, but Chuck accepts it. "You owe me for my dick," Chuck tells him. He picks up the ball, tries to wipe the mud off the grass, and of course, fails to clean it. "Fuck. Ah well, I'll just clean it at home. Tomorrow, alright? Don't get into any trouble."

"Yeah, sure." Luke grabs him by the scruff of his neck and yanks him to his feet. He's muddy and he stinks of sweat but Greg doesn't remove the arm Luke throws over his shoulders. He's muddy as well, anyway, and besides, Luke will only gripe and lecture him about keeping safe.

"People _look_ at you more," Luke always says in that voice Greg hates because it makes Luke sound older, much knowledgeable, which definitely isn't true. "It's better this way."

Greg would complain more but it's true. People do look. That's all they do, really. Most of the time. The younger ones, the people near Greg's age just stare or smile at him more. Older people touch him. They pat his head fondly or, on one embarrassing occasion while they were in Tesco, act all old-lady like by pinching his cheeks and telling him he looks adorable. Which he _doesn't_. Still, the cheek-pinching is better than that one time when they were in train and, well, it didn't go well. If Greg hadn't held him back, Luke would have punched the old man.

"He only offered me candy," Greg told him. "It's fine. I'm fine."

"He wasn't offering you any candy I know." Luke sighed and stared at him disapprovingly. "It's just…well, you look younger than you should. Baby-faced, you know?"

Greg hit him. He's not. Just because Luke is taller. It's not that he's even short anymore. He's gotten taller and he's not the shortest in his class. It's just that Luke's always been tall and gangly and will always be tall and gangly in Greg's opinion.

"You have mud in your ears," Luke says, still in the same cheerful tone, as they walk home. "And you've got blades of grass in your hair."

"You have mud in your brain," Greg replies. It gets him a playful but sharp pull to his hair.

"So how's, you know, that thing. With Mycroft?" Luke shoots him a pained smile. Greg rolls his eyes once more.

"You don't have to ask me about it."

"Yeah, but…We don't not talk about things. And as much as it pains me, I'm your sentinel and he's your…whatever."

Greg scoffs. "He's not my _whatever_. He's Mycroft. We're just friends."

"Oh come on, Greg. I'm the only one you can talk to about it."

Greg scowls. Luke's right, though. Mycroft—he's too different from them. His friends hate Mycroft, just like Luke, only unlike Luke they really can't tolerate his presence. They won't even make an effort. And Greg has to act the part, like he can't stand Mycroft. He feels a bit guilty but that's just what he's expected to do. And it's not like Mycroft's not playing his part either. He barely acknowledges Greg when he's with his friends, won't even talk to him unless he has to.

Greg's not sure if he's even acting or if that's just the way Mycroft is.

Luke pokes his stomach, dragging him back to the present. "You fancy him, though. Which is really weird but…can't do anything about that!" Luke salutes and winks at him. "I, Luke Rochewell, fully support this thing with Mycroft despite the fact that it sickens me to the bones since he's a posh git. But whatever because I love you, bro. I loooove you." He opens his arms and crushes Greg to his chest.

"Gah! Rapist!"

"I am not. Only sometimes. When people are sleeping."

"Jesus, get off me, will you?"

Luke plants a sloppy, messy kiss on the tip of his nose. "Well?" he asks, his eyes eager, expectant. "_Well?_"

"Nothing. We're not—he's not—" Greg sighs. He doesn't want to talk about it because there's nothing to talk about. Frankly, it's just confusing and sometimes it hurts because Mycroft will pull away or will tell him that he's uncomfortable, and somehow, he'll make it sound like it's Greg's fault. As if Greg's ever agreed to this. "We're not like that, alright? Besides, this _thing_ will blow over. It's just this—this _puberty_ shit. Getting to me."

"Greg," Luke says, "wouldn't it be easier? You're supposed to spend the rest of your life with him. I'd rather have you be in love with the guy than be formal with him in a bond."

Greg punches his shoulder. "Why are you getting so mushy all of a sudden?"

"Will you believe me if I tell you I've watched too much of _The Revenge of Maria Ramona_?"

Greg snorts. "Yeah, right. Soap operas aren't really your thing."

"They're _yours._"

"Say that again and I'll stick mud down your throat."

"Naomi's getting a divorce," Luke says in a tone which he thinks is casual but which Greg hears differently. They're not close, Luke and Naomi, but the thing is, you look out for your brother or sister even when you feel like they deserve to live in the pit of hell. It was a shotgun wedding, then a miscarriage, then depression, and now this. _I'd kill the guy._ Greg can read Luke's thoughts just by looking at his face any time. He can also tell when he means it and right now, Luke means it. Doesn't mean he's going to act on it, though.

"Ah."

"I don't want you to go through that," Luke admits. "It's messy and it's tiring and there's so much shouting."

"You know," Greg says, choosing his words carefully, "this pre-bond with Mycroft, it's just for us to get to know each other. I mean, I can always reject him once I turn twenty-one. Or he can reject me. Which I think he will. Or won't since his Father wants us to and, well, you know Mycroft."

"You have a choice," Luke reminds him. They stare at each other, for a moment, quite aware that they're no longer children, that things have changed and it's stranger now, harder, because there are expectations they have to meet. Luke brings his hand to his mouth and chews at his thumbnail nervously.

"Can we not talk about this?" Greg asks. Pleads. "Now? Or ever for that matter. This being serious thing—it doesn't suit us. Makes me feel old."

Luke laughs and he's back to his old self. "Right, right. Fuck, we've been out in the sun for too long, eh? Best go back to being Tweedledee and Tweedledum. "

He ruffles his hair fondly, making Greg laugh. It's alright, he thinks. This growing up and getting serious thing, as long as he's got Luke to make things amusing.

* * *

Greg doesn't like being serious but it doesn't mean that he can't be when the situation calls for it. He's not Luke which is a mistake so many people make. He's got manners for one thing and he knows when to keep his mouth shut. He has, in short, a sense of shame just like anyone else.

Thank the gods Luke doesn't fit in the category of normal.

The door slams open and Luke, with his hair gelled back and with the top button of his shirt left undone, strides in with—to Greg's horror—a large bouquet of flowers. "Madame Darlington!" he cries dramatically, drawing even more attention to him. As if that were possible. Greg shuts his eyes, opens them again. He's not dreaming. "Your knight in not-shining-armour has arrived!"

Mrs Darlington purses her lips and gives Luke the Death Glare. Luke's immune to it, probably because he doesn't care if he gets into trouble or not. Greg has to hand it to him. He can barely look at Mrs Darlington who, with her cold stare, hundred-something old face, and that disturbingly large mole near her nose, embodies the very definition of the word 'nightmare'. But Luke's smiling at her now, beaming at her beatifically, adoringly. Greg bites his lip and tries very hard not to laugh.

"You're not in detention, Mr Rochewell," Mrs Darlington grunts. "But I could easily add you to the list."

"Oh there's no need to do that, my beloved." Luke winks at her lasciviously. "You don't have to make up a reason for me to stay with you. People will talk but _we should let them_. Our love is far too beautiful a thing to stay hidden from the eyes of God and men."

Luke turns his head, enough for Greg to catch his eye. He waggles his eyebrows playfully. _Go. I'll distract her._

Greg huffs. _You're fucking mental._

"Shouldn't you be in your own building, Mr Rochewell? Instead of standing here, torturing me with your insipid babbling?"

"Such _lovely_ words. Please, tell me more. My ears are just desperate to hear the sound of your voice."

Luke steps in front of her desk, blocking her view, and Greg takes it as his cue to slide out of his seat and slowly make his way to the window. Gemma Witte smirks at him when he passes by her table. "Careful," she whispers.

"I would write you a poem, Mrs Darlington, but alas! My writing skills are non-existent so I will borrow the tongue of a great poet to further adore your radiance." Greg looks back and sees that Luke is now sitting on the desk, a crumpled sheet of paper in his hands. "Listen! 'You must know that I do not love and I love you,/because everything alive has its two sides;/a word is one wing of the silence,/fire has its cold half./I love you in order to begin to love you,/to start infinity again/and never to stop loving you:/that's why I do not love you yet./I love you, and I do not love you, as if I held/keys in my hand: to a future of joy - /a wretched, muddled fate - /My love has two lives, in order to love you:/that's why I love you when I do not love you,/and also why I love you when I do.'"

Luke stops, turns to look at him, and grins when he sees that Greg's already climbed out the window and is standing on the ledge. "Are you _more_ in love with me now, Mrs Darlington?" he asks, not dropping the act for one second.

"Mr Rochewell, that looks like it's been ripped from a book from the school library."

"Your eyes are deceiving you, my sweet buttercup." He slides off the desk. "I suggest you let these unfortunate beings go home early so that you can get your rest. You have flaws, but my love for you knows no bounds. Here are flowers to match your beauty, you gorgeous thing."

Oh god, Greg thinks, laughing a bit. He's really going to have to pay Luke back for this.

Greg slides the window shut carefully and slowly, slowly makes his way to the southern wing of the building. _Don't look down, just don't look down and you'll be fine_. He's done this before so distance doesn't really matter, but it rained recently. The ledge is slippery and if he's not careful…Well, a thirty-foot drop's not something you can easily survive.

He stops and drops from the ledge and onto the kitchen roof. "Shit shit shit!" he swears when he nearly slides all the way down. The gutter stops him from falling. It creaks dangerously under his feet, a long, low sound that makes his stomach twinge. Greg waits, breathing deeply, but nothing happens. He sighs, relieved. "I'm never going to do this again."

"I find that hard to believe," someone yells. Greg leans over the edge and sees that Chuck's already waiting for him. "Next time, try not to get caught when you're pranking the older guys."

"You didn't even join," Greg counters.

"Because I specifically told you two not to cause trouble today!"

"Couldn't help it," Greg admits. It's not an illness. He can live a day without pulling a fast one on some unfortunate being. But there are people who deserve it on a daily basis, and Luke _just happened_ to have a lighter with him, and the smoke detector _just happened_ to be there. It was practically blasphemy not to do it.

"Where's Luke?"

"Right here!" The leaves of the tree nearest to Greg rustles and Luke's face pops out, leaves clinging to his ridiculously made-up hair. "Told you, I'd beat you."

"We weren't racing," Greg reminds him. He leans over some more so that Luke can pull him towards him. "At least, I didn't have to flirt with the old hag."

"It was a glorious experience!" Luke protests. "Say that again and I'll wash your mouth with soap. You're insulting the love of my life."

"Seriously, Luke, drop the act."

"What act?"

"_Luke_."

"Fine. Wouldn't want to damage your virgin ears anyway." He climbs down, Greg following. "So," Luke says, clapping his hands together. "What are we going to do again?"

"We're going to Alexia Carter's party, remember?"

"That bint your brother's seeing?"

Chuck rolls his eyes. "She's not a bint, Greg."

"Only sometimes," Greg mutters under his breath, making Luke giggle.

"We should stop at my house first. Better get out of these uniforms."

Greg snorts. "You just want to see me naked."

"Oh, darling, I've seen everything," Chuck answers sarcastically. "Besides, that would be cheating on Luke-y here."

"Yeah, Greg. Fuck off. Messing with our relationship, breaking the children's hearts. You're a menace, cousin dear."

"What can I say? I have an excellent tutor."

"A goddamn sexy tutor."

"With no brain to speak of," Greg adds, smiling charmingly at Luke who scowls at him.

"Alright, stop it," Chuck says. "We're going to my house and you two are going to act civil." He looks at his watch. "At least for the next forty-five minutes."

* * *

"Is this necessary?" Greg coughs, his eyes watering. "I smell awful."

"As long as you don't smell like yourself," Chuck tells him. He stops, mid-spritz, then takes a deep sniff, coughing just as much as Greg. Still, he eyes him sceptically. "Wow, that's strong. I'm going to cough a lung. Oi, Luke, smell him, will you?"

Luke sniffs him, making little snuffling noises that sound like noises something small and furry would make. "You smell like my dad," Luke says frankly, fingers loosening their grip on the back of his neck. "But no trace of your second gender. Nor do you smell of Mycroft. Which is good, really. Wouldn't want people to think you're too posh for them."

"So what the fuck am I? A human-shaped cologne?"

"A Beta with a phobia of body odour," Chuck fills in.

"A burner of eyebrows and other unwanted body hairs," Luke adds.

Greg glares at them both. "I'm changing clothes."

"No time!" Chuck opens his closet and takes out a very battered leather jacket that smells like it's made out of cigarettes. "My brother's old one," Chuck explains. "Better to smell like smoke, right?"

Greg puts it on. It's soft and comfortable but it's a bit too big and makes him feel a bit like he's swimming in clothes. Still, it dilutes the smell of cologne. And it looks nice. He pulls one sleeve over his hand, slips his thumb in a hole that looks as if it was made with a knife.

"Dad's going to kill us," he tells Luke, "if we get caught."

"We're not." Luke doesn't sound convincing, doesn't look it either. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, biting his lower lip. "Our parents won't be back 'til next week and Gran's going senile. She's not going to notice that we're gone. I mean, she tried to feed you _catfood_."

"Gran's not crazy. I broke her glasses that time."

"You're not a bloody cat, Greg. And besides, do you really want to miss this?"

"Yeah," Chuck says. "Brandon's already doing us a huge favour by inviting us. I mean, we're only thirteen. And we're going there. Besides, there's adult supervision. We can always blame Brandon."

Greg thinks about it. "No," he admits. "You're right. It's a onetime opportunity."

Luke ruffles his hair. "Just stick to me and you—we—will be fine."

"Why am I suddenly filled with doubts?"

"Oh, you wound me. Evil boy." Luke pinches his cheek then forces him to look at the mirror. "Thirteen my arse. You look two—three years older."

Greg blinks. He looks weird. Different, but not bad weird. Maybe it's because he's in Brandon's clothes. Luke ruffles his hair even more then stands beside him, one arm slung over his shoulders. He blinks as well, as if he's seeing Greg for the first time. "Wow. You've gotten taller."

Greg looks, startled to see that he's almost up to Luke's ear.

"Huh. You're right."

* * *

"And then he said, he said _lemons_, and it was just—just fuck fuck fuck oh my fucking god. No shit, man, _lemons_. It was, it was the most amazing thing ever." Luke knocks his chest, his drink sloshing down Greg's shirt. "FUCKING AMAZING MAN FUCKING FUCKING AMAZING."

Greg doesn't respond. He's drunk. At least, he _thinks_ he's drunk. He's not sure. He's never been drunk before, never had beer before, either. Greg peers at the empty red cup in his hand. "I'm out," he says. It's not funny but Chuck's brother and Chuck's brother's friends laugh hysterically. Chuck himself is already asleep, curled at his brother's side, and they've only seen two bands play. Greg blinks blearily, his eyes widening when he sees that the cup in his hand is already filled to the brim with alcohol.

"I think," he says slowly. His tongue feels heavy, a bit like a wet sponge in his mouth. Is this what being drunk is supposed to feel like? It doesn't feel too good. "I think I shouldn't…Uh. Um…Drink again."

Brandon laughs again, blowing smoke all over his face. He's cool, Brandon. He doesn't bully them and he finds Greg and Luke's pranks funny. His philosophy is to enjoy yourself while you're young so that you won't regret it when you're older which is something Greg fully believes in. Brandon's the older brother Greg wants and will never have. But that's alright, he's got Luke.

"Drink all you want, kid. How old are you now? Thirteen, right? It's alright. Don't sweat, I can drive you home. Just enjoy yourself."

Greg peers at the little white stick in Brandon's mouth. "Want to try?" Brandon asks and before Greg can respond, he's already fitting the cigarette in Greg's mouth. "Careful, careful," Brandon coaxes but Greg does it too quickly. He coughs, the cigarette flying from his mouth.

"Shit. Sorry." He spits. "Tastes awful."

"Nah, it went down the wrong pipe. Tastes good once you get used to it." He turns to Luke. "How about you Lucas? Want a try?"

"Who the fuck is Lucas?" Luke mutters. He's nearly cross-eyed which is weird since Greg is certain he's had more to drink than Luke. Maybe his alcohol tolerance is higher. "Gimme, gimme!"

Brandon lights him a new one.

"_Blech!_"

They laugh and Greg tries to smile but he finds that he can't do it. He's no longer enjoying their company. It must be the alcohol. He feels a bit sick, to be honest, and he desperately needs to take a piss. He looks at his cup once more then sets it on the table which is littered with empty cups and cigarette butts. "I need…" He pauses, searches for the right word. "Loo. Need it."

"Er, somewhere there." Brandon points past a couple of teenagers snogging on the couch. "Hurry up, okay? Next band will perform in two minutes."

"Yeah, sure."

Greg zips up Brandon's jacket then makes his way to the loo, stepping over people, a majority of them in their teens or early twenties. Greg notices that they're the only ones below sixteen, but for some reason, he doesn't find it appealing anymore. He feels…weird. A small part of his brain, the not-drunk one, is telling him that maybe he's just the second type of drunk, the sad bloke at the corner of the bar, drinking his life away. Luke's clearly the happy drunk, the one who tells stupid stories, while Chuck's the sleeper who misses out all the fun and becomes the subject of all sorts of embarrassing photographs.

His brain's also telling him that he's shit scared but that's not something he wants to dwell on, because if he does, he'll panic and everyone will know just how scared he actually is.

The bathroom must be soundproof because the noise level drops as soon as Greg closes the door behind him. He turns around and gets the shock of his life when he sees a girl around Brandon's age, leaning over the sink, her back to him. "Um," he starts, "I should go, right?"

She straightens then eyes him blearily. Greg's eyes drop to the white powder on the sink.

"Right I'll just go," he says, opening the door and stepping out, his bladder be damned. He bites his lip and wonders if he should tell Brandon that someone's sniffing cocaine in his girlfriend's bathroom. Then again, it feels like Brandon won't really care.

Two hours later, his head is pounding and all Greg wants to do is lie on a soft surface and sleep for a hundred years. He rubs his face and leans against Luke who looks like he's gone into a catatonic state. "I'm drunk," Greg moans. "I'm really, really, really drunk."

"I'm not. I think. I'm not?"

"You are. We're both drunk and we're going to die. You smell like the back of a bar."

"Go home?" Luke suggests and Greg whimpers a 'yes' against his neck.

"Okay." Luke stands up then sits back down again. "Huh. Ugh, how do I do this?"

"Brandon."

"Not here. We're on our own."

"Ngh…"

There's a soft slap to his face. "Hey," Luke says. "Wake up."

"Tired."

"Hey, look at me."

Greg tries but it's hard. His eyelids feel heavy. It makes him laugh. Eyelids. Heavy. They're fucking eyelids, they're not supposed to feel like anything. He cracks one eye open and sees Luke staring at him, suddenly sober.

"Jesus, how many have you had?"

"Hmmm…eight? Ten? HUNDREDS!"

"I've only had four. Jesus fuck, ten?" Luke shakes him. "Greg, snap out of it. Wake up, weirdo—"

The shaking. It's a big mistake. Greg opens his mouth to tell Luke to stop it but instead of words, he comes up with bile. "Shit!" Luke swears, shoving him away. "You just puked all over my shirt!"

"Sorry," Greg mumbles. He lies back on the cushions. "Sorry, sorry, don't feel riiiight."

"I need to get you home." Luke brushes his hair back and looks down at him, biting his lip. "Stay here, alright? Don't move."

Greg doubts he can, much less stand up. He closes his eyes and waits for sleep to get him.

* * *

Hangovers, Greg finds, are one of the most horrible things a person can experience. This has to be it, this head-pounding, brain-crushing feeling that makes him want to grab his stomach and throw it in the nearest bin, just to make it all stop. Greg rolls onto his side and buries his face in the soft sheets.

Sheets which don't smell like him.

This isn't his room. It smells clean for one thing and the bed is far too big. He sniffs. Mycroft's house, he thinks. He's in one of the guest rooms in Mycroft's place. He's _hungover_ in one of the guest rooms in Mycroft's place. Which means that it was Mycroft who got them out of Carter's place. Which also means he's in a lot of trouble and—

"GREEEEEEG!"

Greg winces, then growls when the door swings open, bathing him in light. "Fucking hell! Shut the door!" he shouts, without thinking much of it.

"You smell gross," Sherlock tells him. He climbs on the bed and sits on Greg's legs. "Go down. Your stupid cousin's annoying me."

"Luke's here?"

Sherlock huffs angrily. "Didn't you hear me? He's downstairs with Mycroft."

"Luke's _with_ Mycroft?"

"They're arguing and it's annoying. Go break it up."

Greg shoves him away. "My head's killing me."

"There's some Ibuprofen waiting for you." Greg looks up to see Sherlock searching Brandon's jacket. "Can I have this?" he asks, raising a half-empty box of cigarettes.

"No," Greg snaps, shuddering at the image of the seven-year-old lighting up. "Give me that."

"Why? You're not allowed to smoke." He pulls one out and sticks it inside his mouth.

"Sherlock, stop that!" Greg moves, ignoring his headache, and smacks the back of Sherlock's head, forcing him to spit out the cigarette.

"OW!"

"You made me do it!"

Oh great, Greg thinks. Now Sherlock's doing that fake-crying thing of his which will certainly get him into trouble with Mycroft. Well, even more trouble. It doesn't matter if it's fake. Make Sherlock cry and you've just signed yourself up for a death sentence.

"Sher," Greg starts but the kid's already running out the door. "Damn it!" Crap, if this is what he gets for getting drunk then he's never picking up a bottle again.

The household staff looks at him strangely as Greg slowly makes his way downstairs. One of them whispers something to her friend which Greg just knows is degrading. It's obvious from the way she glares at him. The look makes him blush. They're probably talking about how bad he is, about how he's going to corrupt Mycroft and little Sherlock.

Greg scowls. _So what?_

_Means you're not good enough._

Luke and Mycroft are still arguing when Greg finally enters the kitchen. "You should have been more responsible," Mycroft snaps. He's glaring at Luke. Sherlock's pressed against his side, obviously enjoying the show. "He could have gotten really sick."

Luke scowls but surprisingly doesn't say anything back. He looks awful but he doesn't look like he's battling a huge headache, unlike Greg. He's sitting at the table, scowling at the bowl of cereal before him. "Really, Luke," Mycroft continues. "You don't even _think_."

"Oi," Greg growls. Fuck it if he's hungover and fuck it if he sort-of fancies Mycroft. He's not allowed to yell at Luke and call him stupid. Greg's the only one allowed to do that. "It wasn't Luke's idea so shut the hell up, My."

Mycroft glares at him. "And you. You weren't thinking either."

"I was having _fun_."

"You were getting drunk and smoking up a storm—"

"I do what I want," Greg argues. He's being childish and he knows it but fuck it, fuck it, fuck it because Mycroft's being an annoying dick and Greg absolutely hates it because he doesn't have the right to be one. So what if they're in a pre-bond? Doesn't mean they're together, doesn't mean Mycroft can tell him what he can and can't do. But Mycroft—he's been doing this whole protective thing more than usual and it's annoying the hell out of Greg because he doesn't know what it means. And Mycroft, fuck him, won't say.

Luke stares at the two of them. "I'm going to the living room," he announces. He whistles at Sherlock. "Hey, kiddo, come with me. I'll let you experiment on me or something."

"Don't want to."

"Go!" Greg and Mycroft yell at the same time. Sherlock pouts at them but follows Luke out.

"Okay," Greg says once the two are gone. "I'm a fuck-up, alright? But don't you dare take it out on Luke or any of my friends because it's my choice to be a fuck-up. Yeah, I smoked and I drank and while the hangover's getting to me, I _liked_ smoking and drinking."

"You're thirteen," Mycroft hisses. "_Only_ thirteen, Greg. You're far too young to do those things."

"Can you not do that?" Greg growls. "Can you just act your real age? For once? So what are you saying? That when I'm older then it's perfectly acceptable to smoke and drink and snog random people?"

Mycroft narrows his eyes at him. "You didn't snog anyone," he mutters.

"Well, I wouldn't know. I was _drunk_."

Mycroft just glares at him. "You didn't," he repeats.

"Look, I wouldn't know, alright? And why would you care?" Greg bites his lip. God, he sounds like a dick. Can't help it, though. Mycroft's being a dick as well and this headache…Where the hell is that Ibuprofen?

Mycroft shrugs. "I honestly don't know if I should," he says and god, he manages to make that sound awful. It makes Greg shut up, makes him feel every bit like the idiot teenager Mycroft's implying that he is. He glares at the floor and tries hard not to show a negative reaction. He's not going to cry in front of Mycroft. He's not going to cry in front of anybody because he doesn't feel like it.

"I apologise," Mycroft says, making Greg look up. "That was a mean thing to say."

"Can't change your opinion, can I?" Greg mutters.

"How's your head?"

"_Splendid_."

"Here. Drink this."

"Ta." Greg swallows the pill dry, ignoring the disapproving look he gets from Mycroft. "Shut up."

"I didn't say anything."

"You were going to," Greg says. He still feels odd and a bit angry and it's all because of Mycroft. At least, that's something Greg's sure of. But then Mycroft's wrapping an arm around his waist, _hugging_ him and it's so strange that Greg nearly chokes the pill back out of his stomach. Mycroft doesn't hug people, not counting Sherlock. Greg's hugged him before but it's always him who initiates it, never the other way around.

"I truly am sorry," Mycroft tells him. He's taller than Greg and taller than Luke so that Greg's pressed against his collar bone and oh god, Mycroft's so warm. If Mycroft doesn't pull away, Greg's going to do or say something very embarrassing, very fast—

"MYCROFT, I'M HUNGRY!" Sherlock yells, loud enough to wake the dead and start an army.

"I told you to eat your breakfast," Mycroft snaps, letting go of Greg. It makes Greg feel weird and he wants Mycroft to hug him again which he _shouldn't_ want because admitting that is just going to add to his embarrassment.

"I WASN'T HUNGRY THEN—I'M HUNGRY NOW!"

"Sherlock, stop being such a brat!"

"I'M TELLING MUMMY YOU'RE NOT LOOKING AFTER ME!"

Mycroft mutters something under his breath which Greg doesn't catch. He pushes past him. Greg scratches his head and watches him leave. "Strange," he says to himself.

* * *

"Kiss him."

Greg rounds on Luke, wide-eyed. "What?" he yelps. "That's insane!"

"Why not? He fancies you, too."

Greg blushes. He looks past Luke to see if their grandmother has heard. She hasn't. She's too busy shouting at the telly. Greg punches Luke's arm anyway, just for the heck of it. "Shut up. He doesn't."

"Try it."

"It's not a fucking joke, Luke!"

Luke merely rolls his eyes. "Just try it. When your parents drop you off next week, go and kiss him."

"Luke—"

"He already knows you fancy him."

"Yeah, and look where it's gotten me."

"Didn't know you were a fucking coward, Lestrade."

"Shut up."

"He _hugged_ you. You said he did and you said that he doesn't do that. Why's that?"

"He was apologising."

"Words exist for a reason, my friend. Besides, why was he so mad about us partying? If he really didn't give a fuck about you, he wouldn't have gone off the bend."

Greg doesn't say anything. It's the wrong move because Luke grins like a shark. "AHA!" he shouts triumphantly.

"Shut up, Rochewell. I mean it!"

"My baby's all grown up," Luke teases, kissing him on the cheek. "So proud."

"I hate you," Greg mumbles. "I fucking hate you, you know that right?"

"And I know that you _love_ Mycroft Holmes."

Greg doesn't care if their grandmother sees. He kicks Luke off the sofa, smiling to himself even when Gran starts yelling at the two of them.

* * *

**A/N: The poem Luke recites is from Pablo Neruda's collection of love sonnets. This part is my favorite.**


End file.
